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THIS WORLD SO WIDE 



W. L. RICHARDSON 




Class JUilU- 
Book_J5L7Ji- 

GopiglilN? . 



CQEmiGHT DEPOSm 



THIS WORLD SO WIDE 



w/l/richardson 



For to admire an' for to see, 

For to be'old this world so 'wide — 

// never done no good to me, 
But I can't drop it if I tried! 

KIPUNG 



CHICAGO 

PRIVATELY PRINTKD 

1922 






I'opvri^ht. \*i22 
By W I.. RK HAKDSON 



©CIAGO'^OIO 



FOREWORD 

In llif ]):iyvs tliat follow I hav(t [)riii1(:(l 
for some of my friends the travel letters 
written by me during the early summer of 
1922. They are abrid^'d here and there but 
otlurrwise are only slij^htly changed. 

1 shelter myself behind Kood old Jsaak 
Walton and say in his words: "I propose 
not the gaining of credit by this undertak- 
ing." May my readers "receive as much 
pleasure or profit by it as may make it 
worthy of their perusal if they be not too 
grave or too busy. And this is all the con- 
fidence that I can put on concerning the 
merit of what is here offered to their con- 
sideration and censure." 



PURSUING THE HORIZON 

Since 10:23 Saturday morning, May 13, when the 
"Regina" gave its final whistle at the Montreal dock, 
we have been carrying our little world with us — 
450 cabin passengers, a smaller number of third 
class, and a little army of officers, crew, and 
stewards. As I write it seems as if this were my 
perpetual home, as if every morning during the rest 
of my life I would be called at 6:30 by a gentle 
voice: "Your bahth is ready, sir," and my existence 
were ever to be one long holiday in the midst of a 
vast unending waste of blue sea. 

Our crossing is evidently to be made in just eight 
days. We were held back slightly by fog in the 
Gulf of St. Lawrence, by fresh head breezes the 
fifth and sixth days, and by rain and mist this 
seventh day. Since leaving the land our sights have 
been icebergs, a few whales, flocks of migratory 
birds, an occasional passing ship, and the constant 
miraculous beauty of the sea. 

My fellow passengers are mostly Canadians and 
Englishmen, a modest proportion of Americans, and 
a clannish little group of Germans. The British 
outnumber the rest of us so decidedly that "My 
Country 'tis of Thee" is overwhelmed by the proud 
chorus of "God Save the King." I feel a bit queer 
with my nasal twang and my flat a's. The Canadian 
and English girls, I notice, are much more conven- 
tional than our American girls in the way they fix 
their hair (scarcely a bobbed poll amongst them), 
and in the length of their skirts. Quite frequently 



6 THIS WORLD SO WIDE 

one sees — oh horrors— their cars! A McCiill Utii- 
vcrsity professor is my cabin mate. His name is 
I?atho, though on the cabin list he a|)i)cars as Bathe; 
thus he is chan^'cd from a noun to a verb. Gen- 
erally they transform him, he tells me, to a South 
African j^eneral, Botha, by a little vowel shiftinj;. 
He is (|uiet, gentlemanly, of irrei)roaehable manners, 
with a hithlen fund of humor and with an inclina- 
tion towards the best in literature. 

In the diniu}^ room 1' have four agreeable and 
steatly companions who appear rcKularly three 
times dail.N'. M \' sleamer cliair is contiKUons to 
some delightful pcoi)le. At my right are two Winni- 
peg Canadians of French extraction going with their 
little girl to Kngland on a visit. They are ipiite 
unusual: anyone would be glad to know them. At 
my left are a couple from Los Angeles boutul for 
a summer of travel and a winter at their villa on 
the l\i\iera. lie is a subslantial business man; she 
has been selected for her youthful beauty, charm, 
vivacity, and other good qualities. We are all for 
the time being her admirers and are grateful to him 
for bringing her along. Beyond her on the deck is 
a little body, generally either sick or asleej), but when 
awake and well an excellent comi)anion who cares 
for the best things. 

Our pleasures are numerous. We have a gymnasi- 
um where we can exercise and get weighed. There is 
an orchestra which plays a few times a day and is 
reputed to be excellent. 1 like it from a distance, for 
in the economy of my life music is useful in a sub- 
sidiary way only and must never be allowed to inter- 
fere with the greater urges. One evening we had a 



PURSUING Tiii<: HORIZON 7 

dance on deck and another evening tlic inevitable 
concert where everybody suddenly blossomed out in 
all his finery: the i^]nss of fashion and the mould of 
form. 

My haunts are various. I like the deck, though 
not as much as some; the steamer chair becomes 
wearisome after a little. Nine times around the 
deck makes a mile, and I have done it repeatedly 
but have not made it a fetish. There is a little 
Englishman in knee breeches and a cane who rushes 
along peri>etually, ui> and down the deck like a beai 
at the zoo. I like the lounge though it is a trifle 
noisy. 1 like the reading room though it is a bit 
too ladylike a place and the inexhaustible conversa- 
tion of those females gets on my nerves. The smok- 
ing room is too groggy. On the whole, my favorite 
spot is C 85, my stateroom. I stretch onl on iIk- 
luxurious couch under the porthole, wher(; I (uu 
hear the swish of the waves and the delicious creak 
of the ribs of the boat and the distant throb of the 
engine, and where I can read my book. 1 have read 
lirander Matthews* book of European plays, and 
Tinker's "The Young lioswell," and Van Loon's 
"Story of Mankind," and "Civilization in the United 
States, by Thirty Americans," and Henry Adains' 
"Mont .St. Michel and Chartres," and Paul Elmore 
More's "The Religion of Plato." 'i'he last is deeply 
philosophical, ;iih1 I have not finished it. The 
Henry Adams book and the "Civilization" book have 
made the deepest impression on me. From my point 
of view the primary thesis of the Thirty Americans 
is quite wrong. These writers have the vast assur- 
ance of youth, a comparatively slight interest in 



8 THIS WORLD SO WIDE 

the past, an undue fondness for the things of today. 
There are no prohibitions, no beliefs except in 
one's self, nothing is sacred but music. These men 
are extraordinarily clever and versatile and satirical 
and contemptuous. It is a tabasco-sauce book they 
offer; a little of their philosophy goes a long way 
and it needs to be mixed judiciously with the good 
and satisfying things of life. The Henry Adams 
volume is pure gold, written in chaste English, in- 
forming, inspiring. It conveys a distinction on the 
reader; it imparts some off the enthusiasm of the 
writer for art, religion, letters, and history. 

I am writing this on Saturday evening. At four in 
the afternoon we caught a distant glimpse of the 
north of Ireland through the mist. It looked neither 
green nor orange. Tomorrow, at some hour now 
unknown, we land at Liverpool. Then this pleasant 
company will disperse and the eye of man shall 
look upon us no more. 



OLD ENGLAND 

At 1:20 P. M., Sunday, May 21, I entered the land 
of tea and buttered bread. Long before this every- 
body was neatly packed, had distributed his fees, and 
had put on his going-ashore clothes and hat. Our 
progress had been slight that morning, due to a 
dense fog, but when we returned to deck after an 
early luncheon there were Liverpool and Birkenhead 
looming out of the mist. The officials came aboard. 
We "aliens" were herded into the lounge; I now 
know how an alien feels! The "Regina" docked. I 
took my turn with my blue landing ticket to prove 
that John Bull had no objection to receive me, 
and finally stepped ashore. 

A comfortable room was found at the Exchange 
Station Hotel. I then telephoned out to Liverpool 
College for Girls and asked the principal if I might 
visit the school that Sunday afternoon to see my 
young friend Isobel Evans. The permission was 
granted and I arranged to take the three o'clock 
train ten miles out to Huyton. Liverpool looked 
dull and drab enough as I walked through it. The 
heat, strange to say, was quite oppressive. But 
when my little bustling toy train — so inconsequential 
as compared with our great roaring giants — reached 
the real country and disclosed the green fields and 
hedges, the neat English homes, the flowering trees, 
I felt as if I had come to my own. 

The school is in the center of a little English 
village. I found the principal at her home, the 
Grange; she proved an accomplished English gentle- 



10 THIS WORLD SO WIDE 

woman. Then Isobel was ushered in and I saw her 
after eight years. As a child of nine I had first met 
her at Carnarvon — only for a day — and in the inter- 
val we had corresponded constantly. It was quite 
wonderful to see her again and to find the same 
essential spirit unchanged. After tea we went 
through the college grounds — green lawns and trees, 
rhododendrons, apple-blossoms, ivy on the walls — 
saw the form rooms, assemblies, and dormitories, 
met two of the mistresses, and had much good talk. 
It was altogether a rich experience for me. 

Back in Liverpool I had a chop and potato chips, 
bread and butter, and tea at a hole-in-the-wall res- 
taurant, and then walked slowly through town. At 
two places I stopped for a moment on the outskirts 
of street services of the ultra-evangelical type. Those 
poverty-stricken people with neckcloths in the place 
of collars and wearing before-the-war clothes, sing- 
ing those tinny and pious songs, affected me 
strongly. I could scarcely refrain from weeping. 

On Monday, after a walk through town, a trip to 
the Walker Art Museum where my eyes feasted on 
the Holiday, Holman Hunt, Rossetti, and Burne- 
Jones paintings, and another brief visit with Isobel, 
I took the two o'clock train for London. On the 
way there was rain, giving way to fair weather, very 
hot and sticky. My companions in the coach were 
typical Englishmen of the lower middle class. One 
of them read a propagandist book on the rights of 
the labouring man, which I am happy to say put 
him of? to sleep. 

Lloyd George had returned to London from 
Genoa the day before. There seemed a large crowd 



OLD ENGLAND 11 

at the station when I arrived also. Fame! Fame! 
A taxi took my trunk, my bag, and myself to the 
downtown hotel district; but three hotels rejected 
me and I returned to Russell Square where the 
Imperial Hotel proved to have room and I was 
tucked away in a little stuffy corner. That first 
night was almost the worst of my generally happy 
and care-free existence. No breath of air stirred. 
In close reach of my window was a music hall, and 
the dull songs of the artists and the raucous applause 
of the audience sounded in my ears as I tried to 
sleep. I had acquired a stunning cold and a violent 
headache. And on top of that a tooth that had be- 
haved in a gentlemanly manner for lo these many 
years suddenly began, after premonitory rumblings 
of several days, to throb convulsively. If I had 
known any one elseJ in such sorry case I should 
have wept for him. In the morning I made a dentist 
appointment over the telephone and in due time pre- 
sented myself at a stylish looks-like-a-residence build- 
ing in the Hyde Park region. The maid answered 
my ring and I said "Dr. Paxton, please," and she 
said "kyu" ("thank you"), and I said "kyu" — this 
is a sacred rite in England and must on no account 
be omitted — and sat for a space in a tasteful waiting- 
room-parlor. Then I was shown upsatirs and the 
maid said "kyu" and I said "kyu" and here was Dr. 
Paxton, a man of charming manner, and abundant 
skill and expedition, and one who values his services 
at their full worth. He bored into me and found 
a neat and lively little abscess at the bottom of the 
tooth. Relief, comfort, happiness, exit. 
Well, what have I done in London? My natural 



12 THIS WORLD SO WIDE 

habitat, 1 find, is in the re.^ion of the Strand. This 
is the heart of the heart of my true self. Oh Lon- 
don, my country, city of the soul! You start at the 
Haymarkct and saunter along with eyes open and 
your mind acting like a sensitive disc recording every 
impression. At Johnson's Court and Bolt Court 
you step in and pay your devotion to the great 
Doctor. You have luncheon at the Cheshire Cheese 
— "rebuilt in 1667," and therefore tolerably old. You 
visit the Inner Temple and tread on the very flag- 
stones that knew Charles Lamb. On and on you 
go while London rushes at an ever accelerating 
tempo, until finally you go into St. Paul's and sit in 
that cool and spacious interior with the mighty dead 
as your company. In the crypt are Florence 
Nightingdale and the Duke of Wellington and Lord 
Nelson — to mention no others. If you are Anglo- 
Saxon this is almost the meeting-place of the great 
figures of your race. Then on to St. Paul's Church- 
yard and to Cheapside, and where not else? 

Our greatest American cities at their most 
crowded parts now exceed London, 1 think, in their 
traffic. This is because of the privately owned car. 
The public motor car is still the rule here. What 
is most impressive about London traffic is that it 
is so great at all points. There are important 
thoroughfares in every direction and these are con- 
stantly roaring with busses and cars and trucks. 

I had the good fortune to be in London on Empire 
Flag Day, given up on this occasion to a tagging 
enterprise for the benefit of the London hospitals. 
This was conducted on a scale unparalleled in my ex- 
perience. Eight million tags were ready for sale 



OLD ENGLAND 13 

and were taken care of by thirt3'-fivc thousand 
authorized vohinteers. Peeresses and actresses were 
among the number; but you will be grieved to learn 
that I was tagged by a very ordinary English 
maiden. All the hurdy-gurdies in town were requi- 
sitioned and the bands and all kinds of musical in- 
struments. Here would be a man standing on the 
top of a hand organ which was being played vigor- 
ously by one of his pals. He himself swung a pail 
and caught the pennies as they were tossed from the 
busses. Men were dressed as women in fantastic 
attire. There were American Indians in war paint 
and men in Hindoo garb, and at one point two music 
hall girls in tights and abbreviated skirts singing 
and dancing for the pennies. Altogether it was a 
gala day. 

The English dames and damsels seem to me to be 
quite comely and attractive. That American ex- 
crescence, the flapper, has not yet arrived. Facial 
decoration is very slight. In this particular Chicago 
is nearer Paris than London is. Occasionally one 
sees the longer-skirt I'aris style. The contrasts be- 
tween great wealth and the direst poverty are ob- 
servable on every hand. In the city frock coats 
and striped trousers and silk hats and light gloves 
are frequent. Why the men do it in this torrid 
temperature I cannot explain; I only impart the 
fact. 

I arrived in a period of great heat which has 
continued uninterruptedly. At its worst it has 
reached 88° officially, very unusual for London. 
I try to overlook it, considering it merely an unfortu- 
nate lapse on the part of an old and honored friend. 



14 THIS WORLD SO WIDE 

The Londoners go right on drinking their hot tea 
and dressing in all their clothes. I saw about a 
hundred of them, however, crowding around Sel- 
fridge's ice cream and soda-water counter. They 
may therefore come to American ways if the heat 
continues, which the gods forbid. 

In my spare time I have amused myself in various 
ways. I have been twice at Ginn and Company's 
office, have been greeted like a member of the 
family, and have partaken of afternoon tea. My 
customary visit was made to the British Museum. 
Here I spent most of my time in investigating the 
stone hatchets and other curious things left by my 
very remote ancestors, the earliest inhabitants of 
this tight little island. My instinct also has led me 
into the book shops, and I have stood at the shelves 
and sat at the tables and done my best to avoid 
buying the alluring treasures that I have discovered. 

On this last morning, two and a half days after 
reaching London. I have taken a final stroll into 
the Strand, then down to the Thames Embankment, 
and out to the Houses of Parliament. I have walked 
across Westminster Bridge and back to the Parlia- 
ment Buildings just as the members of the House 
of Commons were going in to hear Lloyd George 
give his official report of the Genoa Conference. 
Then on to Westminster Abbey where I found the 
morning service in progress. Dropping into a seat 
I found that the slab at my side showed the resting 
place of William Ewart Gladstone. The monuments 
all about rendered tribute to persons scarcely less 
distinguished. The innumerable associations which 
this place brings to mind almost overwhelm one. 



OLD ENGLAND 15 

I am writing v/ithin the Abbey and I am surrounded 
by the great souls of the English-speaking world. 
Now, if you will excuse me, I shall bid London 
adieu and go mount my enchanted steed, turn the 
button under his right ear, and fiy away to distant 
lands. 



I SEEK THE HEIGHTS 

Those who go by air from London to Paris drive 
out by motor (this is included in the passage ticket) 
to Croydon which is about fourteen miles south of 
London. I sat with the motorman, a typical cock- 
ney who discoursed fluently of world politics and 
other matters of earth, sea, and sky. The other 
day, he said, he had taken out to Croydon at ten in 
the morning a woman on her way to Amsterdam. 
She was in the chicken-raising business; and she 
was back at Croydon before five with eight hundred 
one day old chicks, all of which he safely stowed 
in his motor and delivered at the woman's home. 
What did the little chicks think about, en route, 
I wonder. 

We went over Chelsea bridge, through Clapham 
and Tooting, and in forty minutes reached the land- 
ing field east of Croydon. The same field is used 
by all the lines — the Handley-Page, the Instone, 
and the C. iM. A. (Companie des Messageries Aeri- 
ennes). The last named was the one I was to use. 
It is possible for as many as two hundred passengers 
to be handled on a full day in the London-Paris 
services. After the inevitable passport formalities 
I walked out to the field and inspected my plane 
with the greatest possible interest. It was a Far- 
man, marked F-UHMF, with a blue body and blue 
uprights, equipped with two powerful motors of per- 
haps four and a half feet in diameter and with 750 
horsepower. The body is made mostly of papier- 
mache with a wooden floor. The width inside is 



18 THIS WORLD SO WIDE 

about five feet and the height six or a trifle more. A 
little forward of the center point sits the engineer, 
with a set of releases and a wheel very much the 
same as the equipment of an automobile. His mech- 
anician is always at hand. There is room for four 
passengers in front of them and eight back of them, 
besides storage space for mail and other merchan- 
dise. We had four sacks of mail. The motors (in 
front, of course) furnish the power and the steering 
is managed by a rudder at the back and by movable 
sections! at the rear end of the two planes. The 
planes are huge but very light and graceful. 

As to the passengers on this sailing, there was 
just one, as it happened. 1 felt as if I had hired a 
private plane for my own use. Seated in the front 
seat of the carriage I surveyed the field with tense 
interest as the motor started with a buzz, a whirr, 
and a roar. It was 1:09 P. M. My seat was wicker 
with a comfortable cushion. In ready reach was a 
two-handled aluminum can, an unpleasant looking 
thing, first aid to the air-sick. The ventilation of the 
cab was in front, a lower disc with a dozen or so 
holes, closed except at the start, and near the top of 
the carriage a horizontal row of thirteen holes the 
size of five-cent pieces. At the beginning the tem- 
perature was about 85° and at the Paris end probably 
90°, but on the way the temperature lowered to 50° 
or less and I donned my overcoat. 

The entire structure quivered constantly, and when 
I touched the frame my fingers beat a rat-ta-tat. 
The noise of the motors, one five feet to my left 
and the other eight feet to my right, both quite un- 
muffled, of course, cannot be escaped. It was really 



I SEEK THE HEIGHTS 19 

of slight consequence, for one soon forgets it. After 
a little I tried the experiment of speaking. My lips 
moved, my ears did not register. I sang "Yankee 
Doodle" — not the slightest echo (splendid for a non- 
musical singer like myself!); I tried a shrill whistle, 
and this finally could be caught. When T dismounted 
from the car my ears felt as if they were full of 
water after a swim in the lake, and the condition 
did not clear up until about two hours had passed. 

Well, as I say, I was on the way at 1:09 o'clock. 
We bumped along the landing field and then im- 
perceptibly took the air. It looked as if we might 
hit the fences and the aerodromes but vvc were al- 
ready fifty feet above them. We mounted rapidly 
in a great circle and pointed south. In full motion 
the car, except for the quivering, was remarkably 
steady, and I had no difficulty in writing. Occasion- 
ally we struck a little puff of air and we gave a 
little duck, as a kite will. The feeling is in the 
pit of one's stomach. If it lasted any length of 
time the experience would be alarming, no doubt. 
But I felt absolutely secure all the time and had no 
timidity in anticipation of the trip, or at starting, 
or in motion, or on landing. I enjoyed it so hugely 
I should have been glad to have gone on to Con- 
stantinople. The windows were directly in front 
of me and all around, and I could sec perfectly, 
straight ahead and up and down. 

Our speed during the first part of the journey was 
perhaps one hundred miles an hour. Frequently the 
250-mile distance is covered in just two hours. But 
I think the engineer decided to save his petrol on 
this trip, in view of the fact that there was only one 



20 THIS WORLD SO WIDE 

passenger; and he took three hours and twenty-two 
minutes. This suited me perfectly for it gave me 
more for my $29.00 worth. Even as it was we rushed 
along at a great rate. I say this because I know it 
must be so, but the extraordinary thing was that 
we seemed to be creeping at a snail's progress. The 
fields and villages and streams and woods presented 
themselves sedately, slowly came and slowly went. 
One can see such enormous distances from an air- 
plane that he cannot, of course, pick up everything 
at once and rush by like a railway train passing a 
telegraph pole. 

The weather was ideal for such a trip, warm 
below and hence not too cold above. There were 
patches of blue sky and patches of clouds. The air 
was still but we made a great breeze. At one point 
came a nice little rainstorm, and the drops ran across 
the window panes like little tadpoles from right 
to left, not of course from the top to the bottom 
of the pane. 

I have no skill to measure heights but it seemed 
to me that we were at first relatively low, to keep 
under the patches of clouds. Even at that the dis- 
tance was great. The villages were absuredly small, 
the trains were little toys, and the cows and sheep 
looked like insects or pebbles. There was a strange 
sense of the levelling out of all the land, for only 
real hills could be distinguished as anything but a 
fiat plain. Houses, country estates, towns, wooded 
stretches, streams and little winding brooks, roads — 
great trunk roads, common wagon roads, country 
lanes and delicate little foot paths — all moved by in 
stately fashion. 



I SEEK THE HEIGHTS 21 

At 1:57 o'clock we were over the LYMPNE land- 
ing field, marked in great white letters under a 
huge circle; and a minute later we reached the 
Channel. We were near Folkestone, and the cliffs of 
Dover were in plain sight. All the way across the 
Channel I could see the bottom! This is the literal 
truth. There was plain sand, and many whitish 
rocks, and patches of dark brown (possibly sea- 
weed). It all looked quite safe and comfortable. If 
I had been wrecked I should simply have waded 
ashore. The channel steamers had the appearance of 
cigars and a little chip of brown wood proved to be 
a steam yacht. 

The coast of France could be distinguished at 
hand at 1:12, only thirteen minutes after we, had 
passed the Dover cliffs. At that point the coast 
of France drops away south. We remained over the 
water until we reached Boulogne and then flew 
directly over it (1:25 P. M.). It is an imposing 
city, with an imposing harbor. 

We were now at an immensely greater height 
and for an hour were literally over the clouds, above 
us the blue-blue sky and the sun, below us beautiful 
fleecy clouds with occasional glimpses of the land 
below, and then a solid bed of woolly clouds on 
which, to all appearances, one could have walked 
for miles. This was the best of the trip. Oh, I tell 
you, air travel is a glorious invention. It is the 
method that our succesors will use to annihilate 
space and to see the beauties of the world. 

Then we got beyond the clouds and all the king- 
doms of the earth and the glory of them were dis- 
played again. The French countryside looked like a 



22 THIS WORLD SO WIDE 

complex crazy quilt, from bright yellows to browns 
and reds and vivid greens. The height was so great 
that no small objects could be seen, and of course 
no movement even of motor cars on the roads. 
Many, many miles could be surveyed in that clear 
atmosphere. We were not far from the battle-fields 
of northern France. They stretched along to the 
north and northeast. We passed the city of Beau- 
vais at four o'clock. We crossed the Oise (the 
stream that R. L. S. used on his "Inland Voyage") 
at Creil, and then surveyed our largest wooded 
tract, the Forest Chantilly. At 4:23 our motors 
slacked their speed slightly and we visibly descended. 
The French fields with their brilliant green seemed 
to be pushing themselves upward. St. Denis was 
close at hand and below Le Bourget landing field. 
The shadow of our plane could be seen on the 
ground; other planes circled about, and twenty or 
more were on the field. We made a great circle, 
hit the ground with a delicate little bump at 4:31 
o'clock and ran along to our landing platform. And 
this was France, and a French official jabbered at 
me, and a passport officer examined me, and a great 
crowd of merry-makers (it was a special exhibition 
flying day at Le Bourget field) stared at me, and a 
nappy little Frenchman motored me in twenty min- 
utes to Hotel Cayre near the Louvre. 

I have traveled by land and sea and air, and the 
air is the best of all. 



PARIS TO FLORENCE 

That first evening in Paris (May 25) 1 took a 
stroll, from my hotel just south of the Seine, across 
the river, through the Tuilleries Gardens, along the 
Champs filysees, almost to the Arc de Triomphe 
and back. It is the great promenade place of Paris. 
One scarcely ever tires of it. London always has a 
vigorous, substantial, dependable character like the 
roast beef of England; Paris is aesthetic, sensuous, 
alluring, exotic. The French people have a great 
deal of charm, and the dress of both men and women 
is commonly quite formal and exquisite, living up 
to the Parisian traditions of hundreds of years. It is 
always interesting to observe the lovely demoiselles. 
As compared with our home product their skirts 
are longer, their sleeves are shorter, their lips are 
redder, their speech if possible is more voluble, and 
their manners are more how-do-you-do. I saw 
a beautiful thing in gray — gray shoes, gray silk stock- 
ings, a lovely gray gown coming down (in a center 
bias strip) as far as the ankles, a chic gray hat. The 
wearer of all this was lovely beyond compare. She 
wore no sleeves, her lips were red, her cheeks 
touched with rouge ever-so-slightly, her jet ear- 
rings depended about four inches. As she moved 
along it seemed to me that while the rest of the 
world might be considered reasonably well dressed, 
this fair creature was the goddess Fashion herself. 

The streets of Paris, especially in the region of 
the Opera, are lively and crowded. There is much 
reckless driving and disregard of rules. The traffic 



24 THIS WORLD SO WIDE 

is heavy, but my private opinion is that if anyone 
can cross Michigan Avenue in Chicago he can cross 
any street in the world. There seem to be more 
movie shows in Paris than in London, but of course 
both fall far below our level. At one place I saw a 
big sign proclaiming "Le Docteur Jekyll et Mr. 
Hyde, un film sensational, Le Summum de L'Art 
Anglais. Exclusivite — Production Paramount." 

Ail the next day I trudged the streets of Paris, the 
main thoroughfares and many byways and hedges. 
It was Ascension Day in the religious calendar, and 
some places, such as the Louvre and the Luxem- 
bourg, which I had reckoned on seeing, were closed. 
The day was relatively cool and I had a delightful 
tramp, drinking in all the sensations I could. Of 
course I stepped into Notre Dame in the course of 
my wanderings. The interior displays hundreds 
of French flags and hence is in these days more 
beautiful than ever. When evening came I started 
off with only my overcoat and knapsack and cap to 
seek new worlds. I walked the entire distance to the 
Gare de Lyon and there took my train for the south- 
east. The international sleeping cars (the Wagon 
Lits) are very differently constructed from our 
Pullmans, much less sumptuous but with some ad- 
vantages of their own. There are upper and lower 
berths made up in compartments that have consider- 
able room and many hooks for hanging clothes. I 
found that there was assigned a young Englishman 
to share my compartment with me — an Engineer 
Lieutenant Commander of the English Navy. All 
the next day I was thrown with him and with a pal 
of his, also a naval officer, and I found both of them 



PARIS TO FLORENCE 25 

genuine fellows, full of life, and by nature cordial 
and friendly. 

In the morning the train had reached the region 
of the French Alps. In the distance the snow tops 
could be seen. The near-by views were scarcely 
less interesting. Green valleys and mountain slopes, 
delightful little towns, fields with waving grain and 
wild red poppies peeping out. We passed Aix-les- 
Bain and Chambery, famous watering places. About 
noon we reached Modane, the border town between 
France and Italy. All trains sit down here and wait 
for a couple of hours. Modane itself is a dirty, dusty 
village. It was simply intolerable that morning. 
The heat was terrific beyond expression. We ate 
our luncheon at the station and passed the time as 
well as we could. Our train now took us through 
the Mt. Cenis tunnel (7^ miles) and we were in 
Italy. At Turin we changed trains and we sought 
refreshment in the station. Then on again to Genoa 
in the early evening, eating our dinner in the Ris- 
torante car en route. The meals are table d'hote 
with about six courses well cooked and expeditiously 
served, the cost about one dollar in our money. In 
England, France and Italy there is no gold money in 
these days. The silver, except in England, is in 
small denominations. Most of the exchange is in 
paper and in coppers. In Italy the paper money is 
mostly small and tends to become very filthy and 
ragged. The franc is worth in France about nine 
cents at present, and the lire in Italy about five 
cents. 

Genoa was reached at 9:45 and there I spent the 
night, leaving my friends, the naval officers, with 



26 THIS WORLD SO WIDE 

many protestations of good will. I established my- 
self at the Savoy Hotel opposite the station and as 
I looked out of my window on that interesting public 
square glorified by the monument to "Cristoforo 
Colombo, La Patria," I felt that life was full of ab- 
sorbing experiences. 

Very early on the next day, Sunday, I could hear 
the church bells of Genoa, and when I walked 
through the town up hill to the north to survey the 
harbor I saw the girls and women on their way to 
church dressed in their Sunday best, the women 
mostly with black lace over their heads. I came 
down again and went slowly through the city to the 
south and mounted up through tortuous streets and 
ascended the countless steps to the topmost level. 
The smells reminded me of Forquer Street, In 
two places there were lively vegetable markets, just 
closing for the day. At the top I found a parapet 
where there was a wonderful "Panorama dclla 
Citta," and of the bay, second only to the Bay of 
Naples. As I descended to my hotel I stepped into 
a huge church and felt at once the impressive wor- 
shipful atmosphere. 

My train took me on to Pisa at 9:55 in the morn- 
ing. I strove to forget the heat. The view was 
quite absorbing, the Gulf of Genoa to our right for 
many miles in plain sight and beautiful hill and 
mountain views to our left. In my compartment 
were a Spanish woman and her daughter from Sala- 
manca, going to Rome. By some misfortune trouble 
arose about their tickets. The conductor talked 
enormously in Italian, and the girl enormously in 
Spanish. In the end she had to pay an extra 144 lire 



PARIS TO FLORENCE 27 

(about $7.00) and she was utterly crushed. Life held 
nothing worth while. I went through to the dining 
car for luncheon. When I returned the Spanish girl 
was partially reconciled to her hard lot and was 
confiding to her diary all the outrageous fortunes 
of the morning. 

Before we reached Pisa our journey took us a dis- 
tance inland and the country flattened out. Between 
trains I had an hour's time, and I walked through 
town. It was the sleepy siesta time of day. I 
hugged the shadows, for in the sun the streets were 
unbelievably torrid. In a quarter of an hour I 
reached the famous group of buildings: the Baptis- 
tery, the Duomo and the Leaning Tower, all of 
which I had seen before, though one can scarcely 
see them too often. Then on to Florence, with ever 
increasing excitement, for Florence seems like an 
eighth wonder of the world and it has such count- 
less associations that the very thought of it always 
fills one with indescribable emotions. At the station 
(5:30 o'clock) I was met by six of my friends and 
we marched triumphantly through the streets to the 
Hotel Florence et Washington on the Arno, Here 
ensued great and fervid talk in making our plans 
for the next ten days. To fulfil a dinner engage- 
ment I now started off alone from the Duomo in a 
cab (after waiting a long time for a tram car which 
was delayed by a picturesque Fascisti procession) 
to the Villa Torricella in a suburb of Florence 
almost all the way to Fiesole. I had a little difficulty 
in finding the place — my Italian is stupid enough — 
but when I reached there I was a thousand times 
rewarded. It was something to see one of those 



28 THIS WORLD SO WIDE 

excedingly beautiful Italian villas and to be with 
friends from the other side of the world. 

The succeeding day I had the luxurious feeling of 
doing just the things I wanted to do — strolling along 
the Arno and the Ponte Vecchio, looking into the 
shop windows and making my modest purchases, 
and visiting the Pitti and the Uffizi. Florence is 
lovely and absorbing beyond words. My closing 
impression was a walk in the evening in the soft 
air under those stars and a slender moon. We 
sauntered along the Arno, heard the music in the 
hotels, looked at the water and the sky, watched the 
swimmers in the river. At one place we saw an 
advertisement of Mary Pickford's "Papa Gamba- 
lunga," the delicious Italian equivalent of "Daddy 
Longlegs." 



FLORENCE TO BOZEN 

On the morning of May 30 our party of eight was 
under way for northern Italy, the Trentino, and the 
Eastern Alps. Four of us were from Massachus- 
etts, three from Chicago, and one from Detroit — three 
men and five women. We traveled with fourteen 
bags and smaller stuff and we made an impressive, 
not to say ridiculous, appearance as we trailed along. 

By train we went to Verona by way of Bologna, 
Modena, and Mantua; through the Appennines, then 
across a plain country. When we reached Verona 
there were the hills of the Trentino on beyond. The 
town has great interest and charm. Before dinner 
we took an hour's tramp through the town. The 
old Roman amphitheater, or the Arena, is the most 
imposing single object. It was built by Diocletian 
and it is still in a good state of repair. It seats 
20,000 people. Such a building appeals strongly to 
the imagination. A few blocks beyond is the Piazza 
Erbe, the old Forum of Verona, with quaint and 
beautiful buildings (some with frescoes) and a 
column bearing the lion of St. Mark, indicating 
Verona's earlier connection with the republic of 
Venice. Even more attractive is the smaller ad- 
joining square, the Piazza dei Signori, a perfect gem. 
In the center is a statue of Dante. The surrounding 
buildings include the old court of justice and the 
town hall. On beyond are the Gothic tombs of the 
Scaligers, perhaps the most artistic and impressive 
of all the sights of Verona. 

We returned for dinner, and then strolled about 



30 THIS WORLD SO WIDE 

the great square in front of the Arena. Here there 
was a good military band. All the population of the 
city seemed to be present. Just before we reached 
our hotel, we saw a little eight or nine year girl 
in festa dress practicing a dance in the street while 
her mother sang the tune from the upper window. 
Nothing more graceful or charming could be con- 
ceived. I shall always remember Verona from this 
incident. 

The succeeding morning we traveled forty minutes 
westerly to Desenzano, a station at the south end 
of Lake Garda. This lake is the largest in the 
Italian lake region and like the others is exceedingly 
beautiful. Our trip by water took us four hours. 
We steamed under a blue sky; the air was soft and 
coolish; the water was an emerald green shading off 
into a deep blue green, and so clear that great depths 
could be seen. Every little while there were stops at 
entrancing villages, built mostly on hillsides with ter- 
raced gardens, lemon groves, olive orchards, and 
other fruit-raising spaces all around. As the north 
of the lake was reached the hills became mountains, 
Monte Baldo towering over 7000 feet above us to 
the east and Monte Rosso a lower but more pre- 
cipitous mountain to the west, bare to its very sum- 
mit. Until 1918 the Austrian border came as far 
south as Riva, the town at the northern end of the 
lake. Now the Italian territory stretches for a great 
area to the north, as far as the Brenner Pass. Our 
host at the Pension Hotel du Lac at Riva was a 
lieutenant in the Austrian army and served in Rus- 
sia and on the Austrian border. He said that the Ital- 
ians did not get into Riva until after the Armistice. 



FROM FLORENCE TO BOZEN 31 

He showed where their fortifications were on Monte 
Baldo, and we investigated at close hand the fortifica- 
tions of the Austrians on the Rosso. The Italian 
guns practically riddled Riva during the war but 
the damage is nearly all repaired now. In the gar- 
den of our hotel trenches had been dug and the 
hotel itself was partly destroyed by shells (some 
of them of American make) fired by the Italian 
forces. 

We were beautifully looked after at Riva and there 
were solemn discussions before we decided to move 
on at the end of one day. The park at the back of 
the hotel leads right down to the lake; it is beauti- 
ful with flowers and palm trees and a great pro- 
fusion of other luxurious trees. The town of Riva 
is on the lake at one end of a fruitful valley about 
five miles square. Its climate is probably about that 
of Los Angeles. It is an entrancing garden spot, 
surrounded by those great hills in all directions. 

The next day we started ofif in a large open hired 
auto bus on a three and a half hour trip (about 65 
miles) to our next stopping place. The customary 
route for tourists is a little east of north through 
Bozen. But we had decided to go a trifle west of 
north to Madonna di Campiglio with the thought 
of going east to Bozen later. It was a glorious day 
of sunshine. In long curves we mounted the heights 
and reached the hills. We traversed two long val- 
leys over which were scattered dozens of pictur- 
esque towns through which our way led. On the 
higher levels were more towns and scattered villas. 
As our journey progressed we were climbing ever 
upwards and towards the last made great zigzags 



32 THIS WORLD SO WIDE 

while our auto snorted with the effort. Now a 
mountain range of the eastern Alps was plainly in 
sight — the Brenta Dolomites, bare gray peaks, two 
of which (Cima Tosa, 10,410 feet, and Cima di 
Brenta, 10,335 feet) tower over the rest with great 
masses of snow at their summits and in the higher 
crevasses. Then on beyond we went and came sud- 
denly upon our destination, a small summer resort 
town, where we established ourselves at the Hotel 
Savoia, — as comfortable and attractive a place as 
the soul of man could wish. In front of us was 
a friendly burn rushing down from the hills, and 
beyond that a wooded slope leading up to Monte 
Spinale. To the southeast the Dolomites could be 
seen and back of us was a delicious stretch of real 
pine woods. Madonna di Campiglio is about five 
thousand feet above the sea and the air is fresh 
and cool. 

We achieved another wonderful morning for our 
first climb in the Alps. At eight o'clock we started 
off with our guide, Antonio Dalla Giacomo. By 
slow degrees we worked our way through the woods 
on a very easy trail and then (more sharply) 
mounted Monte Spinale, where we' ate our picnic 
luncheon in a vast amphitheater surrounded by the 
great mountains. Snow patches were near and we 
pelted one another. We had reached a level of 
about 6,800 feet. Then we moved on under a tower- 
ing mountain cliff whose style we decided was Early 
Perpendicular, to a mountain pass about 8,000 feet 
above the sea. Here we investigated a very com- 
plete refuge hut and signed our names in the book — 
the only Americans for a year or more. A shelf 



FROM FLORENCE TO BOZEN 33 

of rock beyond gave us a marvellous view of hills 
and valleys, especially the great sharp peaks of Cima 
Tosa, Cima di Brenta, and the other peaks in the 
same range. At this point the snow surrounded us 
on all sides. We worked our way down over the 
snow fields and the rocks, parted from our ascend- 
ing path, returned through a remarkably beautiful 
stretch of pine woods, and at the last walked on a 
narrow path next to the raging brook, a full mile 
to Madonna. 

The next day proved gray and at times rainy, 
so our plans for a long climb were abandoned. We 
contented ourselves with shorter tramps. The pros- 
pect was fairer the succeeding morning and our 
whole party were up at five o'clock. It was a sad 
wrench for a few of our number; but another big 
climb was planned and no one complained. There 
was not a cloud to break the outlines of the moun- 
tains. Everything stood out with startling clear- 
ness; the atmosphere was deliciously cool. Under 
such circumstances our walk began somewhat after 
six o'clock under the leadership of our guide 
Antonio. First we skirted a hillside in the woods 
and crunched the dead leaves, then we surveyed 
a waterfall tearing down the side of a cliff, then 
ascended by easy and more difficult stretches to 
ever higher and higher levels with the country ex- 
panding before us, then the snow line and our ob- 
jective plainly in view, and finally after a scramble 
over rocks and patches of snow to the Tuckett 
Hut, 7,440 feet above the sea. It is a substantial 
stone building with accommodations for many 
climbers; but of course the season had not yet 



34 THIS WORLD SO WIDE 

begun. Four of us decided to ascend to the Tuckett 
Pass on beyond, beckoning to us in the sunlight. 
In ten minutes we had mounted on the rocks to 
the edge of the glacier which stretches down from 
the pass for a long distance. Here we were roped 
together (it was not strictly necessary, for there 
were no crevasses in the ice, as it proved, but the 
roping did give a sense of security), and we worked 
our way slowly up through the soft snow which 
covered the ice. It was real labor and a number 
of stops were necessary to get our breath. But 
the top was reached in a little more than an hour, 
and we were now rewarded by a truly magnificent 
view on beyond into the mountains and valleys lead- 
ing to Molveno, and back across the country that 
had now become so familiar to us, to the Adamillo, 
Presnella, and Ortler Mountains. Above us towered 
the Cima di Brenta. I cannot convey the impression 
of such an experience as this. Down we now came 
in short order, part of the time actually tobogga- 
ning on the snow. We joined the others, had a 
slight luncheon and then retraced our steps to the 
valley. 

At a little after four we started off again in a 
great open bus which we had hired to take us to 
Bozen. Here again our experience was a deeply 
interesting one. We skirted along our valley with 
our friends the Brenta Dolomites in view for a 
half hour or so, then descended in great circles 
about 3,500 feet to a wonderful green and fertile 
valley stretching for many miles east, spread out 
in the late afternoon sunlight. Dozens of little 
villages, of which Male was the chief, were trav- 



FROM FLORENCE TO BOZEN 35 

ersed. It was Sunday afternoon and we saw liter- 
ally thousands of people, all in their Sunday best, 
standing in front of the houses, leaning from the 
windows, and playing bowls in the improvised courts 
or on the road. Children, children everywhere, and 
hundreds of them waved ecstatically at us and 
shouted their good will. Bright Colors prevailed. 
These were the Italian Tyrolese, and they pleased 
us well. 

Our way led through valleys and along hill slopes 
and through new groups of villages. Always the 
scenery was impressive and sometimes it was grand 
and wild. A glance down into a deep valley where 
the rushing river seethed along, a glance upward 
to the high hills, a glance ahead to still further 
openings in the country and enchanting vistas be- 
yond, a glance back over the long stretches we had 
traversed. This was our pastime on that remark- 
able journey. It all seemed somehow strange and 
unreal, a chapter in some history that did not be- 
long to us. 

Now we ascended in long loops upward and up- 
ward to a pass in the mountains where in an instant 
we were looking down from a great elevation to a 
new world, a broad valley lying 3,500 feet below 
us with Bozen shining as a gem in the center, and 
beyond another group of Dolomite Mountains, the 
main and more imposing range. We were at Mendel 
Pass, 4,400 feet above the sea. Then again a descent 
with turn and turn and turn into the valley, and 
we looked up and saw that sheer mountain from 
which we had come. Our new fertile valley is part 
of Italy, but only since 1918, and to all intents and 



36 THIS WORLD SO WIDE 

purposes it is Austrian, or Austrian-Tyrolesc. The 
signs are all in German, the people mostly seem 
to be speaking German, and we have passed from 
the square yellow-and-white Italian architecture to 
the many-gabled and peaked and bay windowed 
Germanic houses, with a riot of colors. Over the 
river are several picturesque old castles and in the 
center of the town is a beautiful Gothic church, 
while in the adjoining square is a statue of the 
Minnesinger Walther von der Vogelweide. At this 
point we closed our adventurous journey. 



THE LAST DAYS IN THE TYROL 

There is a superflux of holidays in Italy. On 
the morning after our arrival at Bozen we found 
that we were celebrating Whit Monday. All the 
shops were closed. Everybody was dressed in his 
best clothes and the city wore a gala appearance. 
We were particularly pleased with examples which 
we saw of the Tyrolese costumes. The little boys 
wore suspenders that pulled their little trousers 
almost up to their shoulders. Bozen is a sizable 
and important city at a place where several valleys 
meet. To the east is the main range of the Dol- 
omites. To the north the roads lead to Austria, 
to the south to the peninsula of Italy, to the west 
to Switzerland. We made our headquarters at an 
imposing pile of buildings known as Hotel Greif. 
Here we lived sumptuously at small cost. Our meals 
were eaten out in the open in front of the hotel 
on the public square, while all of the city went by 
us and inspected us as we inspected them. On Whit 
Monday we did not attempt to do much. We wan- 
dered about town. We took ices to keep cool. We 
had our luncheon on top of a hill, the Virgel, which 
we reached by a funicular railway. We listened 
to the band concert in the evening. 

Ten o'clock the next morning (June 6) found 
us all neatly packed in a large motor bus and headed 
for the mountains to the cast of us. We climbed 
the hills over Bozen, passed through a great gorge, 
and soon had the glorious Dolomite scenery to feast 
our eyes upon. Before noon we reached an enor- 



38 THIS WORLD SO WIDE 

mous hotel, the Karer See, set down under two 
groups of the Dolomites and not far from a beauti- 
ful lake of bright emerald hue. At Canazei, some 
miles further, we had our luncheon at a tourist 
hotel. The weather had been gorgeous all morning 
but now thick clouds gathered, and a severe moun- 
tain storm, with much rain, broke upon us. It was 
almost five o'clock before we ventured to go on. 
The skies were smiling again. We climbed to the 
Pordoi Pass, over seven thousand feet above the 
sea, then moved downward to Arabba, and to 
Buchenstein, and again slowly mounted the heights 
amidst grand and inspiring scenery until we finally 
passed the Falzarego Pass (8,200 feet) amidst the 
bleak snowy uplands. The people in the towns we 
had passed since morning appeared to be nearly all 
Italians, not the Austrians of the Bozen valley. At 
the close of our day's journey at Cortina we were 
at the old Italian-Austrian border. On our way 
up to the Falzarego Pass and on beyond we were 
at the battle front. Whole villages had been shot 
to pieces and were only partially rebuilt. Dugouts, 
tons of rusty barbed wire, trenches, fortified rocky 
heights, military cemeteries, and all the other horrid 
accompaniments of war were everywhere in evi- 
dence. It was a most interesting and a most de- 
pressing experience. 

Our day's journey was completed by a long de- 
scent into the Cortina valley in great curves down, 
around a hill, and finally facing the picturesque 
town (about 4,000 feet above the sea) with an im- 
posing cathedral tower and possessing a trim, well- 
regulated appearance in general. We rushed through 



THE LAST DAYS IN THE TYROL 39 

the town and arrived about eight o'clock at the 
Miramonti Hotel, a full half mile beyond Cortina 
proper. The hotel was most attractively situated 
and was quite grand in its way, the best we had 
patronized on our trip. The other guests were 
nearly all English and a little forbidding in their 
ways, so we kept our distance. 

The country around Cortina is charming in the 
lower levels (wooded heavily, mostly with pine 
trees and beautiful larches), and inspiring in its view 
of the mountains. In contradistinction to Bozen, 
the air is cool and conveys the vigor of its higher 
elevation, close to the Dolomites. The accepted 
theory about the Dolomites is that they are of 
coral formation and at some remote period were 
lifted out of the surrounding ocean. It gives one 
a strange feeling to entertain such an idea, looking 
at these pointed spires of mountains thousands of 
feet above the sea and hundred of miles inland. I 
enjoyed the quiet and beauty of Cortina. The first 
day was spent in reading and in short walks. That 
evening we had a party, since our pleasant company 
was so soon to break up. Everybody dressed in 
his finest. For dinner we had special treats. The 
evening was concluded by pleasant conversation as 
befits a company of friends. 

At a little after six-thirty the next morning we 
started on a long climb up to the mountains, led 
by an Italian guide, Angelo iColli, and his hardy 
little Italian dog, Bocci. Our journey took us 
through a corner of the town and by slow degrees 
to a low hillside and across country for two hours. 
Then we climbed upward, left the wooded tracts. 



40 THIS WORLD SO WIDE 

and found ourselves eventually on the high levels 
again among the rocks and mountains. Here was 
a fighting front of the war, for the Austrians and 
Italians faced each other from the heights across 
these mountain valleys. We entered trenches and 
dugouts, saw the effect of the huge cannon balls, 
and picked up a number of shells and war accou- 
trement of various kinds. At a mountain hut under 
the imposing rocks known as Cinquetore (Five 
Towers) we rested. The clouds had covered the 
clear sky of the early morning and rain fell. The 
weather appeared better after a little and we scram- 
bled up our trail for the Nuvolau, our destination. 
When we were less than half way up the rain re- 
commenced and fell pitilessly, giving way a little 
later to hail. We reached a sheltering hut in a 
very wet, cold, and discouraging condition. But 
our spirits were good and we ate our luncheon 
with much gusto in the basement of the hut, stand- 
ing up around a plain wooden table and beating 
our arms to keep warm. In a little, the sun again, 
and we continued our climb. At 12:30 we had 
reached Nuvolau (8,460 feet), and we surveyed the 
entire surrounding country, most impressive in sun, 
cloud, and mist. By the time we reached the lower 
hut at the iCinquetore the clouds covered us again 
and rain began. We waited an hour and a half 
for sunshine and descended by a steep road to the 
valley. There we requisitioned a motor truck and 
saved ourselves a few miles. When the town was 
reached we bade adieu to our guide and his dog, 
and moved on to our hotel. Altogether we had 
walked about fourteen miles and we were quite 



THE LAST DAYS IN THiE TYROL 41 

ready for our five o'clock tea, a feast to which we 
always gave more than justice. 

An early breakfast was necessary to take our 
7:30 train. Three of our number were going to 
Davos Platz by the most direct route through Inns- 
bruck, I was going by the Miinstertal and Enga- 
dine route, and the remainder planned to stay for 
some days longer in Cortina and that region. We 
started on a curious little mountain railroad for 
two hours to the termination of that line at Toblach. 
There we took the train to Franzenfeste. At that 
point our ways parted. My train took me south 
down the valley to the familiar Bozen and then 
swung west in the long valley reaching up to Switz- 
erland. I felt quite desolate all alone after ten 
days of delightful companionship. But the trip was 
a beautiful one and I enjoyed the passing sights. 
Meran, where my train finished its journey, was 
reached at three o'clock. It is a charming spot 
built in the valley and on the hills and it presents 
a fine spectacle as one comes to it and wanders 
through its streets. I left my knapsack at the sta- 
tion and investigated the town — for there was 
no train further west for four hours. I sat in a 
park. Townspeople were about me, the birds sang 
overhead, a fountain played in front of me, while 
in my ears was the sound of the rushing river fifty 
feet away. Coming back I paused at the "Frau 
Emma," where Goethe Strasse and Schiller Platz 
meet, and there I had a cup of tea and read for a 
while Maurice Hewlett's "Little Novels of Italy." 
In due time came along my train. I traveled from 
7:20 to 9:55 in a diminutive car behind a leisurely 



42 THIS WORLD SO WIDE 

engine. While the light held I saw the beautiful 
stretch of country to the west of Meran — the valley 
at the side of the train, then a great fertile valley 
down below after our train had mounted to the 
hills, then the valley coming up to meet us and 
the closing-in of the hills while the Adige roared 
by our side. Then darkness, and I existed as well 
as I could under two pitiful lights and hoped that 
the time would not seem long. That night I spent 
in a humble sort of a hostelry at Spondinig, Hotel 
Hirsch, where German only is spoken. I disrobed 
in the presence of about one hundred flies who sat 
on the walls and ceiling and thought how nice it 
would be to plague me when daylight should arrive. 



OVER THE STELVIO AND ON 
TO DAVOS 



The three days of tramping that now ensued were 
worth a wilderness of ordinary days. That first 
morning at Spondinig I had my breakfast at 6:15, 
and paid my 46 cents (atif Amerikaner) bill for bed 
and breakfast — cheaper than the Old Ladies' Home. 
Presently I shouldered my knapsack and took my 
pilgrim staff in hand. I walked first across a swampy 
stretch almost two miles long on a banked-up road 
under a double row of poplar trees, the beginning 
of the famous Stelvio road built by the Austrians 
some years ago — the highest wagon-road in Europe. 
I passed through Prad at seven o'clock and watched 
with curious interest the townspeople assembling 
for one of their innumerable religious festivals. Here 
were all the church banners brought into service 
for the procession. A little further on the valley 
closed up and I began to ascend by the side of a 
tumultuous river. At the outset I had been at a 
level of 2,905 feet, and now I was destined to work 
my way up on this road to 9,055 feet, an ascent, 
as you see, of 6,150 feet. The day was overcast 
much of the time, with rain. For some miles the 
higher views were obscured, but much was to be 
seen in the valleys. Gomagoi, a small village on 
the side of a hill, was reached a little after eight. 
The clocks were striking nine when I went through 
Trafoi, 5,055 feet above the sea, an imposing place 
with many hotels, most of which were not yet open 



44 THIS WORLD SO WIDE 

for the season. It commands a good view of the 
Ortler group of mountains, the most westerly Dol- 
omites. The road winds in curves up over the 
town and the latter is in view* a long time. 

My next objective was Franzenhohe, two thou- 
sand feet higher up. As I climbed the clouds began 
to close me in and now nothing but a little patch 
of road could be seen. Then rain. By a miracle 
a large hut, invitingly open, with shingles and straw 
covering the floor, sprang up before me. I dashed 
in and rested for a half hour while the wind howled 
and a torrent of rain descended. With my knap- 
sack under my head and Maurice Hewlett to beguile 
me, what did I care. Then sunshine and a stretch 
of clear weather. Here were the great Ortlers over 
my head crowned with a wilderness of dazzling 
snow; and just across the street, as it seemed, a 
blue glacier working its way downward from the 
edges of the clouds. It was as if I had been blind- 
folded for a space in order that my eyes might 
be freed at the precise moment of greatest delight. 

I reached Franzenhohe, a sizable summer hotel 
not yet open, superbly situated in the midst of all 
these marvels. It was now eleven o'clock, and my 
goal could be seen plainly, the pass five miles ahead, 
on a level practically two thousand feet above me. 
It was then I began to lose my breath and to feel 
the burden upon my back. Those interminable long 
turns in the road, where one returned almost to 
the place where he had started! I had left the 
trees behind me and the snow was everywhere in 
evidence; great patches covered the road. No carts 
or automobiles had gone higher than Franzenhohe 



OVER THE STELVIO AND ON TO DAVOS 45 

the present season. Clouds and a brisk little shower 
caught me again and I crawled into a little wooden 
leanto almost filled with snow, and there I panted 
miserably for five minutes. At 12:30 I had reached 
a small inn set into the side of a hill and I rested 
another space. The weather still held reasonably 
clear and I was almost at the pass. At one o'clock 
precisely, having taken my last upward step, 1 stood 
on the top of the world 17^ miles from Spondinig 
and 9,055 feet above the sea. Looking back and 
up the scene was majestic; looking on into the new 
country I had discovered I could see little but a 
desolate snowy valley like a cup surrounded by hills 
which formed the rim; at the bottom the Italian 
custom house, the Canzoniere. 

/My road was now quite obliterated by snow but 
I could follow it by means of twenty-foot poles 
which pointed the way. I floundered down about 
a thousand feet into the valley. Towards the bot- 
tom the snow was very soft and I frequently sank 
up to my knees while my feet encountered nice 
little pockets of cold water at the bottom. De- 
lightful experience. Well, sooth to say, I reached 
the Canzoniere about 1:30 and found there a bunch 
of soldiers, miserable fellows who spoke only 
Italian, not even a word of German. Baedeker 
mumbles something about there being an inn at 
this point but it's a lie. There are soldiers' bar- 
racks and a Ristorante. By good luck 1 found the 
latter and ordered bread and red wine. Well, that 
hard bread and wine saved my life. It tasted mar- 
vellously good, for I had eaten no morsel since my 
coffee and bread at Spondinig. 



46 THIS WORLD SO WIDE 

But the rain was now falling relentlessly and 
the cold wind howled around the corners. What 
was I to do? I could not make up my mind to 
seek lodging in that place for the night; the thought 
was too cruel. I paid my score of thirteen cents 
for my meal, and waited around. A slight clearing 
in the sky gave me courage. I started on. Here 
a soldier sprang up and demanded my passport. 
He looked at it stupidly while the rain beat upon 
it; finally he decided that I was I, and he let me 
go. As to my personal belongings he forgot to 
ask. I might have had a case of beer and a thousand 
cigarettes on my back. He was really incredibly 
stupid, and could answer nothing to the exceedingly 
choice Italian I mustered for his benefit. But my 
map showed me the way I was to take down through 
the Umbrail Pass to Santa Maria in Miinstertal, 
eight miles. I started, but was again checked by 
the merciless rain while I partly sheltered myself 
in a miserable hut. Again the same experience a 
little beyond; this time I stood under the dripping 
eves of a shed. But now things looked clearer and 
I moved on in really abounding spirits. It was 
three o'clock. I had scaled the Stelvio. My former 
passes accomplished on foot (St. Bernard, 8,110 
feet; Furka, 7,990; St. Gotthard, 6,935; Simplon, 
4,852) seemed as nothing to this. And I had only 
eight down-hill miles to negotiate before I would 
have supper in a kindly mountain town. 

Forty-five hundred feet of my hard-earned upward 
journey were sacrificed in that hour and three- 
quarters' descent to the valley of the Miinstertal. I 
soon left the snow and picked up the pines and 



OVER THE STELVIO AND ON TO DAVOS 47 

larches. A trickling stream starting with the snow 
patches and growing by accretions had now become 
a roaring brook. The road curved downward 
through the narrow and picturesque Umbrail Pass, 
I met two Swiss soldiers, pleasant and well-built fel- 
lows, who examined my passport. Further on I saw 
two 17 and 12 year old boys at their home door and 
greeted them. The pass widened and gave a first 
glimpse of the valley with entrancing mountains be- 
hind. And then, shiver my timbers, if the rain 
didn't start again — a gentle and persistent rain which 
I scorned to notice. Just where I got my full picture 
of the valley: Santa Maria down below, Miinster to the 
north and east, and two smaller towns on the slopes 
to the west, I encountered again the two boys I 
had seen a while back on their doorstep. They 
had been following short cuts of their own and 
were working their way to Santa Maria with two 
beautiful bunches of Alpine rose, presumably for 
sale. I accompanied them and we carried on an 
animated conversation. It is surprising how much 
German one can understand and communicate when 
hard pressed! In fifteen minutes we were at the 
pleasant little town. I parted from my two good 
friends and headed for the Hotel Schweizerhof, 
where I was welcomed heartily as a needed if not 
an expected guest. A rubdown in hot water put 
me in fine shape and I settled down iqr two hours 
of reading before dinner. My feet and muscles had 
served me well and I was not especially tired, hav- 
ing covered twenty-six miles (counting out the short 
cuts) and my 6,100-foot climb as readily as I might 



48 THIS WORLD SO WIDE 

have done it at any other period in my life. Then 
a well-earned dinner — perhaps the best meal I had 
ever eaten; bean soup, omelet with herbs, tea, roast 
lamb and potatoes and beans, and rhubarb sauce 
with delicious little cakes. I shuddered to think 
what I might have had at the Canzoniere. At nine 
o'clock I went to bed happy and well content. 

I had now definitely passed out of Italy and had 
come to Switzerland, the country of the tinkling 
cow-bell and of milk chocolate and of the high Alps. 
Well, what impressions remained with me of my 
two weeks in Italy? I still see the church-bound 
women of Genoa with their black lace head scarfs; 
and the beautiful stretch of the Gulf of Genoa; and 
the Fascisti demonstration in the streets of Florence, 
the flags waving, the men singing, while through 
their ranks wind a company of black-hooded spec- 
tres bearing a corpse, the white face uncovered on 
the bier; and I see a squirmy little youngster being 
baptized in the Baptistery of Florence, where all 
the Florence children have submitted with good 
or ill grace to this rite for many hundreds of years. 
I see the charming little dancing girl and the Arena 
and the Piazza Dante in Verona; and I see the 
turquoise water of the Lago di Garda, and the lilacs 
in the towns and the profusion of wild flowers on 
the hillsides, and the majestic groves of larches. 
I see the Tyrolese people celebrating a holiday in 
their red dresses and curious costumes; and I see 
the little boys and girls of Cortina decked fn their 
confirmation suits going to meet their Archbishop. 
I see a thousand wayside shrines and I hear count- 
less cowbells. I see many signs of stupid and devas- 



OVER THE STELVIO AND ON TO DAVOS 49 

tating war, and in a cemetery near the Austrian 
border a hundred headstones bearing the star and 
crescent all facing towards Mecca — the graves of 
Mohammedan soldiers of Bosnia and Herzegovina 
sacrificed in the armies of Austria. I see in Meran 
the Austrian coat of arms still embellishing the 
railway station of that nowadays Italian town and 
the statue "Fur Gott! Fur Kaiser und Vaterland!" 
commemorating one hundred years of union between 
Austria and the Tyrol, now past forever. Above 
all I see the majestic mountains, the snowy Brenta 
and Rosengarten and Ortlers, and under them Ma- 
donna di Campiglio and Cortina and Trafoi. 

Well, to continue with my narrative, on the morn- 
ing after my arrival at Santa Maria, I partook of 
a good breakfast and had a few closing words with 
my most agreeable hostess whose English was about 
as good (and as bad) as my German. I started 
on my way at a little after eight and continued until 
a little after five, covering 26 miles. It was Sunday 
and the villagers were decked in their best. I passed 
through Santa Maria and after a little a smaller 
town, Valcava. The cows, all mouse-colored, were 
being driven out to pasture by little boys in cordu- 
roys; a housewife sat at the edge of her field of 
clover and knitted; every one I met said **Guten 
Morgen" or "Guten Tag" with cheerful good will. 
It is such simple little things as this that fill the 
foot-traveler with unutterable joy. I traversed a 
stretch of pine wood and reached another hamlet, 
Fuldera. The road ascended and at Cierfs I en- 
countered the highest village in the Miinstertal. 
The church bell was ringing and here was the pastor 



so THIS WORLD SO WIDE 

(a pleasant-looking man) gathering his flock. The 
Miinstertal is a Protestant Canton; hence there are 
no wayside shrines and the churches are severely 
simple. 

Beyond Cierfs the road wound uphill and I found 
myself following the long curves again. In a half 
hour I had reached the Offen Pass, about 7,000 
feet — not a difficult climb, but a sense of accom- 
plishment comes when the summit is reached. Be- 
hind was the valley of the Miinstertal; beyond was 
the region of the Engadine. I went into a refuge 
hut and rested for an hour and a half while the 
rain fell briskly. With my single match I built a 
fire. I ate a lunch of bread and cheese and eggs, 
and at 12:30 departed warmed and fed. The weather 
was goodish with occasional sprinkles. Even the 
distant views were not obscured, so I had no com- 
plaints. 

Below the pass I found a spreading valley with 
rather dense pine woods. A pleasant tumbling 
stream afforded good company. At 1:45 I passed 
by a substantial hotel well situated under the green 
hills with glimpses of the snow tops beyond. Then 
the valley closed in and there seemed no way of 
escape. But, lo, a narrow gorge, and a high peak 
above, its gullies filled with snow. Five hundred 
feet below was my roaring stream. The road picked 
its way around picturesque enlargements of the 
gorge; the scenery was wild and impressive. Then 
a sharp ascent of a few hundred feet, past a pre- 
cipitous cliff and a little Alpine farm, where some 
boys were cracking their whips at a bunch of goats. 
On top another pass and a gradual descent as the 



OVER THE STELVIO AND ON TO DAVOS 51 

gorge widened. At a turn of the road a glimpse 
of the village of Zernetz, situated on a green plain 
or tableland four miles ahead. The road went to 
meet it by an easy decline and at four o'clock I 
was again among my fellows. Since ten in the 
morning I had been almost alone, although at one 
point the Post passed me — tinkling bells on the 
horses, two carriages of passengers, and a mail cart 
behind. 

I had planned to spend the night at Zernetz; 
but I was still going strong, so I decided to walk 
on another four miles to Siis. The valley closes 
in and the road follows the path of the river. Then 
an open space appears and here is the little Swiss 
hamlet of Siis set in a small valley. The River Inn 
is roaring down the Engadine and will presently 
reach Innsbruck. It is a real river. Two beautiful 
trout caught on this very day furnished a substantial 
meal for me at the Schweizerhof, where I was the 
first American guest in years. As night fell I felt 
stiff and cold but I smothered myself in the great 
Swiss featherbed and all was well. 

Monday morning found me eager as usual to 
pursue my journey. My agreeable hosts at the 
hotel, finding that I had nothing but Italian money, 
told me that they would be well satisfied to have 
me send a money order from Davos Platz. Thus 
did they trust a stranger. 

The day was grey and threatening, but here and 
there a trace of blue sky. Above Siis is a high 
hill. Thither my way led upward over the Fluela 
Pass to Davos, eighteen miles to the west. At 6:20 
o'clock I was puffing on the ascending road. In a 



52 THIS WORLD SO WIDE 

few minutes I found myself in a narrow valley 
beautifully green on both sides. The inevitable 
mountain stream was at my side. These tearing 
brooks have lots of fun; all they have to do is to 
go down hill! My road worked its way along by 
gradual ascents; I could see it several miles ahead 
winding around a cliff. The country became more 
wild and forbidding. I passed through a five-hun- 
dred-foot tunnel. A countryman with a week-old 
black beard met me and talked volubly in German 
which I could not make out. I said "Ya, Ya!" 
fervently and he thanked me and went on. I was 
now approaching the Fluela Pass. A marmot sat 
on a stone and gave a piercing whistle twice before 
he decided to seek safety. I had now left the trees 
and was in the midst of snow. At the beginning 
of the pass a refuge hut. And now the pass itself 
extending for over two miles, mostly on a level. 
The highest point is 7,835 feet (I had mounted 
from 4,689 feet at Siis). A more bleak and desolate 
scene could scarcely be imagined. Everywhere 
were bare rock and snow; the cold wind blew across 
those stretches; a thick cold mist and a few snow- 
flakes struck me in the face; my hands were like 
icicles ; I could see only a few feet ahead of me. Then 
the baying of a dog, and a house loomed out of 
the mist. It was Fluela Hospice, and my road 
began to point downward. The hour was nine 
o'clock. I never left a spot more gladly. To be 
sure, I was for a half hour in a barren waste of a 
place, but I was approaching civilization and it could 
come none too soon. The mist was left behind 
but the clouds were grey and black. By a miracle 



OVER THE STELVIO AND ON TO DAVOS 53 

the rain held off. Then the friendly trees and an 
occasional farm. In due time there was a glimpse 
of the smiling Davos valley miles ahead. The rest 
was easy. At eleven o'clock I was marching through 
Davos Dorf. I closed my journey just five hours 
from the time I had started. My morning's tramp 
was eighteen miles without a stop. In three memor- 
able days I had covered seventy miles and had 
accomplished three passes in the mountains, repre- 
senting climbs of 6,100, 2,500 and 3,100 feet on the 
three successive days. It is a region full of in- 
terest and the scenery is grand and impressive in 
the extreme. I can wish nothing better for all my 
friends than that they may be privileged to take the 
same trip. 



MOVING BACK TOWARDS PARIS 

At Davos Platz I found that Monday noon, as 
I had hoped, two friends just arrived from America, 
and the three others whom I had left a few days 
before on their way to Innsbruck. We had agreed 
to meet at the Victoria Hotel. This proved an 
attractive place with delicious meals and charges 
to match. We had a notable reunion at the luncheon 
table, swapping travelers' yarns. 

The season at Davos Platz is at its height in 
the winter when the sun shines brightest, the snow 
is a dazzling white, and the winter sports are on. 
It is beautifully placed under the Alpine mountains. 
The night I was there a snow storm whitened up 
the hills and powdered the tops of the higher clumps 
of trees. Davos Platz is over 5,000 feet above the 
sea and even in the summer the average temperature 
is only 51°. The town is a famous health resort. 
I associate the place with Robert Louis Stevenson 
who came here in search of health. Here lived 
John Addington Symonds for many years. 

We were rewarded with a fairly clear and sunny 
day on Tuesday (June 13) and we started off for 
our train trip to Lucerne in high spirits. First 
an electric railway, beautifully appointed, which took 
us through gorgeous mountain scenery — along the 
cliffs, down into the valley at Klosters and on some 
miles further to the main railway going northwest to 
Zurich. We climbed into an apartment in a carriage 
that was going straight through to Amsterdam; it 
had a pleasant flavor of faraway lands. Presently 



56 THIS WORLD SO WIDE 

we skirted the shores of one of those exquisite emer- 
ald bodies of water, the lake of Wallenstadt, a gem 
set down in the hills. Lake Zurich came along 
a little later, larger and more imposing. I recalled 
vividly my first sight of it a dozen years earlier. 
Two thirds the distance along the lake, when we 
already had a glimpse of the city of Zurich, we 
dismounted and took a third train going southwest 
to Lucerne. On the way we passed the small Lake 
of Zug, and about four o'clock skirted the end of 
Lake Lucerne and rolled into the station. We found 
pleasant quarters at Hotel des Alpes, facing the river 
and only a few yards from the lake. Here again 
I was treading familiar ground and was pleased 
beyond measure to be once more in that city of all 
delight. 

Wednesday proved an absolutely perfect day in 
the brightness of the sky and the softness of the 
air, and one of the most perfect in my simple annals. 
We had arranged to take a trip on the lake and 
to cover part of the distance between stations on 
foot. Rigi and Pilatus lifted their heads above us. 
The emerald blue water without a ripple spread out 
before us, and everywhere the villages and pictur- 
esque hotels and wooded slopes, with here and there 
a waterfall. Every few minutes a bewitching new 
vista was disclosed. Surely this is one of the most 
heavenly spots on earth. At Treib we left the boat 
and climbed leisurely to the top of a 800 or 1,000- 
foot hill known as Seelisberger. Flowers, wild 
strawberries, short stretches of woods greeted us 
on the way. At the top we found a clear space and 
ate our luncheon in full view of the entire south- 



MOVING BACK TOWARDS PARIS 57 

eastern stretch of the lake known as Urner See. 
Then down by way of narrow paths and a stretch 
across green fields and on beyond through a dense 
wood to the Riitli, a famous spot in the early annals 
of Swiss independence. Here we took another boat, 
some to go on all the way to Fliielen, and three of 
us to go only one station to Sisikon, where we dis- 
mounted again and walked the four miles along the 
famous Axenstrasse above the lake all the way to 
Fliielen. 

We were back at Lucerne about six o'clock and 
then went immediately to the Cathedral, where in 
these days an organ recital is given daily from six 
to seven in the evening. The music was most satis- 
fying. One extraordinary number in the recital rep- 
resented a storm in the mountains followed by a 
hymn of thanksgiving for the return of fair weather. 
I could hardly imagine anything more effective. 

As it happened, we had reached Lucerne just a 
few days before a great national music festival and 
competition was to be given. Twenty thousand 
singers were about to arrive, and the city was 
already decked with flags and banners and flower 
baskets and tree branches, all in the most artistic 
manner. The sight added a great deal to our en- 
joyment. It seems that the decorations were com- 
pleted early in order to give a proper setting to a 
religious holiday on Thursday, which was the day 
of our departure. I was awakened by the booming 
of guns. The early morning was full of activity 
in the streets. At eight o'clock a great procession 
began, participated in by a number of thousands 
of people, a considerable part of the entire popula- 



58 THIS WORLD SO WIDE 

tion of Lucerne. I stood on the sidewalk of one 
of those picturesque narrow streets and watched 
the procession go by. In all the windows were 
flowers or flower baskets and tree branches, in many 
of them lighted candles, and down the street the 
banners were waving. There was a little battalion 
of Swiss soldiers at the head of the procession. 
Then hundreds of little girls in white dresses and 
flower chaplets around their heads, their hair hang- 
ing to their shoulders, and their leaders carrying 
festoons of flowers and flower baskets. Behind 
them older girls covered by white veils, quite to 
the ground. Some of them were saying their Latin 
or German prayers audibly in unison, their rosaries 
in their hands, led by teachers or nuns; some of 
them were singing very sweetly and in perfect time 
from hymn books which they bore in their hands. 
Then came women in black with blue ribbons around 
their necks, bearing lighted candles, and also say- 
ing their prayers. Then boys, a great company of 
boys, singing under the direction of priests, all in 
perfect order, their little blue caps held securely 
under their arms. Church banners, crucifixes, and 
other churchly trappings gave a picturesque cast to 
the procession. On the ranks moved — youths of 
college age, men and old men, a group of women 
in blue straw hats, another in the gray uniform 
of a religious order, a procession of nuns praying 
fervently, a stalwart group of men in red uniforms 
like Sousa's band, thirty or forty Dominicans (many 
with strong faces), a curious company of women 
in native Swiss costume, choir boys and adult men 
in surplices, and most impressive of all a church 



MOVING BACK TOWARDS PARIS 59 

canopy of satin with suitable accompaniment of 
dignified priests and under the canopy the Cardinal 
himself bearing the sacred vessels and decked in 
his gorgeous robes of office. There was a measure 
of superstition in all this spectacle, no doubt, but 
there was also devotion, dignity, reverence on the 
part of young and old, a rededication to the higher 
and nobler and more spiritual things, and this was 
the better part. 

Our plans that morning meant another and a final 
breaking of our party. The others went to Inter- 
laken and I to Bern and Neuchatel. Our trains 
left at almost the same moment. I felt lonesome as 
I sped away westward. I was also leaving the higher 
Alps and heading towards the less interesting lower 
levels in the westerly section of Switzerland. The 
train went through an attractive, well-watered, 
vividly green and fertile section. At about two 
o'clock I reached Bern. 

Bern is the Swiss seat of Government and hence 
has a certain distinction. It is a sizable city, the 
largest which I had seen since leaving Florence. 
Part of it is very old but the new has overlaid and 
obscured it. There are curious and sometimes 
grotesque fountains in the public squares. A num- 
ber of the older streets are arcaded. The main 
part of the city is built a hundred feet or more 
above the beautiful Aare River. The bridges at 
that height are imposing. I visited the handsome 
Gothic Minster; I spent an hour deliciously in a 
book store looking over books and prints; I found 
a fine city park above the river looking out to the 
Bernese Alps, and I read Bernard Shaw's "Caesar 



60 THIS WORLD SO WIDE 

and Cleopatra" and ate cherries. Then an unex- 
pected shower came up after a day of clear sun- 
shine, and I sauntered to the station and took the 
5:23 P. M. train still further west to Neuchatel. The 
journey occupied about an hour. I found a comfort- 
able room and a good dinner at Hotel Terminus, 
near the station. After dinner I indulged in the 
movies for the first time since reaching this side 
of the world. There were two pictures, one giving 
an interesting peasant story with a tragic close, the 
other a Douglas Fairbanks picture. Doug looked 
strange in these surroundings, but he raised a laugh 
at all the appropriate places and my pals all seemed 
to relish him. The explanations were in French 
and German, left and right in parallel columns. 
Neuchatel is nearly all French-speaking, I think. 
Bern was mixed, with more French than German; 
Lucerne was nearly all German; while in the region 
I had encountered earliest the Italian-Swiss people 
predominated. 

On Friday morning I spent two hours in view- 
ing the town. It is built on hillsides overlooking 
the Lake of Neuchatel and hence the streets are 
on different levels. The town has perhaps 25,000 
inhabitants. As compared with Lake Lucerne the 
Neuchatel lake is disappointing, for the shores are 
lower and the stretch of water is greater, making 
the distant views obscure. But I was none the 
less well pleased with both the town and lake. For 
a little I sat in the little park by the lake, a school 
back of me and the voices of children singing 
songs. I have now seen all the Swiss lakes of any 
consequence except Constance. Neuchatel is one 



MOVING BACK TOWARDS PARIS 61 

of the larger ones but smaller than either Con- 
stance or Geneva. 

It had become necessary, much to my regret, to 
move away from Switzerland. My train came along 
about noon and I found a seat in a through car- 
riage which was to be my headquarters for over 
ten hours. In my compartment there were only 
Frenchmen, five of them — so I entered the great 
silence again. But after a period I fell into con- 
versation with a delightful young English couple 
from London. Until we reached Dijon the train 
was very leisurely and shunted about interminably, 
stopping at nearly every station. The mountains 
fell away and a beautifully green hilly and plain 
region succeeded. At Dijon there was a thirty- 
minute wait while our train was reassembled and 
a number of new coaches added. The long-distance 
travelers had now come both from Switzerland and 
from Marseilles, and here — oh, joy! — was a res- 
taurant car. These European diners are handled 
on a very sensible plan which we might well emu- 
late. The passengers who wish to eat in the res- 
taurant car receive a ticket from the car porter. 
When the first sitting is ready a dinner bell is rung 
through the train and those who hold tickets for 
that sitting go to the car and are served a table 
d'hote dinner with great expedition. Then comes 
the second sitting and if necessary a third. There 
is no uncertainty and no crowding in the aisles 
waiting to pounce upon the next unoccupied seat, 
as in our system. 

I ate dinner with my new-found English friends 
and a pleasant Frenchman who talked English and 



62 THIS WORLD SO WIDE 

had traveled in America as far as Minneapolis. We 
were moving through central France. The train 
was now a sort of de luxe express and made scarcely 
a stop from Dijon to Paris. The daylight saving 
plan meant that darkness did not actually fall until 
almost 9:30. Then we were not far from our desti- 
nation. It was tedious getting into the station, but 
a little after 10:30 I finally dismounted, bade good- 
bye to the English couple, and mounted a horse 
taxi. We rattled along the side of the Seine, past 
park benches each of which was occupied by a fer- 
vent couple whose hearts — I speak literally — beat as 
one. Then we crossed the river with the towers 
of Notre Dame looming in the darkness, went down 
the Boulevard St. Germain, and at 11:15 o'clock 
reached Hotel Cayre, where I found harborage. 

The morning after my return to Paris I was the 
first person up and about in the city, and I walked 
all round the place before the shop shutters were 
removed. I had made up my mind to see more 
of Paris and to investigate its highways and byways. 
For the first time I got the hang of the city; I have 
certainly enjoyed Paris and appreciated it more this 
year than ever before. The people still seem to me 
to be more superficial and artificial and easy-going 
than the average Anglo-Saxon. They are quite 
likely to have substantial qualities, however, that do 
not appear on the surface. 

Most of the afternoon I spent, first at the Luxem- 
bourg Museum of modern sculpture and painting 
(a collection that had pleased me mightily years 
ago), and then, after a little trip to the Pantheon, 
two or three hours at the Louvre. What a mar- 



MOVING BACK TOWARDS PARIS 63 

vellous place it is! I believe all one's artistic sus- 
ceptibilities, if he has any, will be brought out at 
the Louvre. It gives a course in liberal culture. 
If I lived in Paris I think for a while I would make 
a daily trip to that great gallery and confine my 
attention on each occasion to one room exclusively 
until by slow degrees I had covered them all satis- 
factorily. 



LONDON AND OXFORD 

Sunday came — the day scheduled for my return 
from the Continent to England. At eight o'clock 
I took the underground railway to the Gare du 
Nord where I arrived ten minutes before the de- 
parture of my train and threaded my way through 
a great mob of people. In the compartment were 
an English couple and their little girl, and two 
Americans, man and woman, good and ardent 
friends. On the way to Boulogne the train passed 
through Amiens and Abbeville, pursuing much the 
same route that my airplane had taken three weeks 
earlier. I spent most of my time reading Lytton 
Strachey's new book and I found it very enjoyable. 
The day was bright and cool. At Boulogne pier 
there was the usual perfunctory inspection of lug- 
gage and examination of passports. We were then 
all herded on a channel steamer, which chugged 
right along towards its destination at Dover. I had 
a good piece of English roast beef in the boat res- 
taurant, and then looked around upon the choppy 
waves, upon the two shores of France and England 
very plainly in sight, and upon the motley crowd 
of passengers returning like myself from a foreign 
sojourn. Many of them had been to the ends of 
the earth, for at Dover I found that the London 
train was in two sections and one was labelled 
"Bombay express" and destined to hold a full half 
of our passengers who had just come from the 
Orient. The English are determined travelers, and 
have been since their early pirate days. 



66 THIS WORLD SO WIDE 

The cliffs of Dover which I now saw close-to for 
the first time were of great interest to me. If 
Gloucester had actually thrown himself off these 
cliffs he would have spent the rest of his life in 
reaching the bottom, to use a favorite expression 
of one of my companions in the Tyrol. 

Going up to London I sat in a small compart- 
ment in a little English carriage along with some 
pleasant tea-drinking English people. I was glad 
to be back in England. It seemed like home, or 
at least like being in the home of one's cousins, 
Furthermore, it is a pleasure to be able to talk to 
everybody if one chooses, to buy what one wants 
at any store or restaurant, and to eat a real break- 
fast, not the attenuated thing that serves the pur- 
pose on the Continent. 

Arrived in London I took the Underground to 
Russell Square and at a little after five was back 
at the Imperial Hotel, where I connected with my 
trunk and once again was able to spread out after 
a compressed existence for a few weeks. In the 
early evening I luxuriously and delightedly walked 
the London streets, and then, it being Sunday even- 
ing, went to the City Temple, where as one of a 
great audience I heard Dr. Jefferson of New York 
give a masterly sermon. It was a good way to 
end the day. 

Early in the morning I took a bus to Marylebone 
and presented myself at Francis Edwards' old-book 
shop just as the shades were being drawn. There 
I spent a delightful hour and a half running over 
the titles of many hundreds of choice books, and 
handing out more cash than my judgment approved 



LONDON AND OXFORD 67 

of. Finally I went away with my little load of 
treasures, and Mr. Edwards was kind enough to 
put on his hat and take me to the top of the street, 
showing me on the way the Mary-le-Bone church- 
yard associated with Hogarth and his drawings, and 
a little further on the house where Dickens lived for 
a number of years. 

In the course of the day I visited Liberty's — this 
is a pleasant enterprise for me whenever I visit 
London — and was waited upon by those obliging 
and intelligent English shop-girls, the most finished 
specimens of the kind that the world contains. And, 
finally, after paying my score at the hotel, I went 
by bus to Paddington Station, where I took the 6:15 
train for Oxford. It was the evening rush hour 
and my compartment was occupied by a crowd of 
jolly chaps, Oxford residents and London com- 
muters. 

Arrived in Oxford at 7:30 I sought the Mitre 
Hotel but found it filled — the Clarendon with simi- 
lar results — then all the way back to the Randolph, 
where I received the last unoccupied room. Busy 
place, Oxford. After dinner I made a circuit of 
the colleges, as night closed in and the pink sunset 
sky darkened. There is an undeniable charm in 
those pointed Gothic buildings and spires, and the 
associations of the place that crowd upon one pro- 
voke a sort of emotional intensity. I saw the lads 
on the streets or under their lamps in their dormi- 
tories, and I thought of my own casual and ill- 
ordered and incomplete education and wondered if 
these Oxford youths had a sufficient appreciation 



68 THIS WORLD SO WIDE 

of the opportunities that were theirs. And so to 
bed, as Pepys says. 

Morning dawned gray with a mind to rain, but 
the sun won the battle in due time. Christ Church 
College first beckoned me, as always, and I entered 
the quadrangle, passing under Old Tom, and moved 
on to the noble Commons where the tables were all 
set and the long rows of portraits looked down upon 
me. There was Lewis Carroll, like an old friend, a 
modern interloper among the old pictures of Wolsey 
and Henry VIII and their crew, but a Christ Church 
man none the less. Then I went to Pembroke and 
bared my head in honor of Samuel Johnson. But 
I cannot enumerate all the steps of my pilgrimage. 
In due time I passed the Bodleian and came to 
Blackwell's book shop, one of the most enticing 
spots in the broad world. I found several thousand 
books that I wanted and I could not tear myself 
away in less than two hours. Then I lugged my 
spoils to the hotel, partook of luncheon, and con- 
tinued my tour of inspection out as far as Mag- 
dalen, and back to the Bodleian and to the Camera 
and its tower. It was curious to see the Shelley 
memorials at the Bodleian. Expelled in his day, 
Shelley has now become one of Oxford's most 
famous sons. The college men of our period are, 
I think, a fine lot and they seem to uphold the best 
traditions of the place. They go about with no 
hats, they prefer to ride their bicycles rather than 
to walk, and they affect pipes rather than cigarettes. 
As the clocks struck the hours I could see the noble 
dons and learned doctors hurrying to their lectures. 

Last of all I returned to Christ Church College, 



LONDON AND OXFORD 69 

entered the Church itself and feasted my eyes again 
upon those glorious Burne-Jones windows; and then 
walked on to the meadows and to the broad walk 
under the elms. And this was the end of my Oxford 
pilgrimage. 

Coming back to London on the fast afternoon 
train I made the acquaintance of a little nine-year 
old named Vivian whose home was at Waltham. 
I gave her some American and Swiss and French 
and Italian coins, and she asked me if I was a 
foreigner and I said I was. At Paddington Station, 
there were hundreds of flags flying against the arrival 
of the Crown Prince on the morrow after his long 
journey to the ends of the earth. 

I had a brief hour or two in London and then 
took another train (at 6:30) southwest, a rushing 
express whose first stop was Southampton. I saw 
patches of rhododendrons and the innumerable 
green trees and hedges of merry England. It was 
a glorious sunny close of an ideal summer's day. 
Dorchester was reached at 9:40 in the gathering 
dusk. I walked into the town and said to the police- 
man: "Could you direct me to the Kings Arms 
Hotel?" "It will be a pleasure," those were the 
words of this wonderful policeman. "Go to the top 
of the street and at the town cross turn to the right 
and you will see the hotel on the left. Good night," 
he added with the same cheery good will. So I 
followed my directions and here I am in room 17 
of the Kings Arms, in Dorchester, or "Casterbridge," 
where Mayor Henchard had his hard experiences, 
the central spot of all the Thomas Hardy novels. 
The town clocks are striking eleven. 



'mr- 



IN THOMAS HARDY'S WESSEX 

Dorchester is the chief town of Dorset and the 
center of interest in the old region known as "Wes- 
sex" and so denominated in all of Thomas Hardy's 
novels. It covers a considerable area, this town of 
Dorchester, and numbers nine or ten thousand in- 
habitants. In the stores one can buy Kodaks and 
Singer sewing machines and Armour's canned goods 
and Ford and Maxwell cars. Back of this crass 
modernity is the near-modern town of the Hardy 
novels. It has already disappeared somewhat but 
one can almost see at the corners of the streets 
Eustacia Vye and Gabriel Oak and Michael Hen- 
chard and Bathsheba Everdene. Antedating them 
is the historical town of Dorchester, established 
these many centuries. From this place went to 
Massachusetts its first governor. On the village 
street is still seen the house where Judge Jeffreys 
lived when he was here for his "bloody assizes," 
and in the museum is the judge's chair which, ac- 
cording to tradition, the old scoundrel used. St. 
Peter's Church, a noble edifice at the high point of 
Dorchester, speaks of medieval England. But back 
of Judge Jeffreys and St. Peter's, centuries back, is 
the old Roman town of Durnovaria. The Romans 
laid out these streets, and the substantial Roman 
roads reach out from the town in all four directions. 
At one point the Roman town wall is still to be 
seen, and relics of the mosaic pavements, coins, pot- 
tery, swords, and statuary of old Durnovaria are 
innumerable. On the edge of the town is "Maums- 



72 THIS WORLD SO WIDE 

bury Rings," a grassy mound and arena, the finely 
preserved remains of a Roman amphitheater. Long 
before the coming of the Romans, however, this 
was for many thousands of years a place of human 
habitation. The evidences are many and curious. 
Excavations in the amphitheater have revealed 
bronze-age pottery, picks of red-deer antlers, and 
flints innumerable. This is a country of barrows or 
burial mounds of the ancient Celts and Britons, and 
there are literally hundreds of them in the neigh- 
borhood. Some of these have been opened and 
human relics placed there during successive ages 
have been uncovered. The oldest skulls are of 
men of the stone age, for only stone implements 
are found in connection with them. A few miles 
from Dorchester is Maiden (or more properly 
Maidon or iMai-dun) Castle, an ancient great hill 
fortress. It is a vast prehistoric earth work, abso- 
lutely unique. The circumference of the top is a 
mile and a quarter. This is at a considerable ele- 
vation from the plain and is reached by steep slopes 
and depressions. In the old days access must have 
been as difficult as to Kenilworth Castle. And all 
this was accomplished by prehistoric men with their 
rude picks and scoops. But back of these men is an 
ancient past quite inconceivable in duration. In 
the neighborhood of Dorchester have been found 
elephants' tusks. They seem ancient enough, but 
they are really absurdly modern, for by their side 
are the fossilized remains of the early reptilian 
beasts, ichthyosaurs of the size and somewhat the 
shape of crocodiles, and a jolly hind paddle of a 
pliosaurus about seven feet long. The last named 



IN THOMAS HARDY'S WESSEX 7Z 

customer complete must have been of stupendous 
size. 

When I say, then, that Wessex is an ancient 
place, I speak the truth. 

Well, then, on my first momentous day in this 
region I bestirred myself early and before the shops 
were open I had taken a good look about Dorchester 
up and down hill and in the older and newer sec- 
tions. By chance I learned that the townspeople 
had prepared during successive years dramatic pre- 
sentations of some of Hardy's novels and tales, 
given locally, and with great success in London. It 
seemed to me an interesting thing to locate some 
member of the company; and after a little inquiry 
I met a Mr. Pouncy, proprietor of a saddlery shop. 
He proved a delightful gentleman and he told me of 
the genesis of the plays and of the parts he had 
taken personally, such as Gabriel Oak in "Far from 
the Madding Crowd" and the Constable in "The 
Three Strangers." In a little his brother went by 
and he called him over. The brother was a most 
intelligent and active man, a lecturer and reader, 
especially of the Hardy novels, and the man who had 
made the dramatization of the stories. Furthermore, 
he was now living in the Hardy birthplace, two and 
a half miles from Dorchester. This Mr. Pouncy 
had an abundant cordiality and forthwith asked me 
to take supper at his home, a very human and kindly 
invitation. 

Cheered by this circumstance, I continued my in- 
vestigations. With great surprise at my own 
temerity I made my way to the environs of the 
town and across green fields to Max Gate, the resi- 



74 THIS WORLD SO WIDE 

dence of Air. Thomas Hardy himself. I rang the 
bell while a small dog yelped at me, and I sent in 
my card to Mrs. Hardy who presently appeared. 
Here I was, an American, an admirer of Mr. Hardy's 
writings, etc., etc. Did she think Mr. Hardy would 
be willing to have me meet him for a few minutes? 
Hesitation, good-will, understanding. Well, possibly. 
He was not at home at the moment but if I phoned 
later in the day she would let me know. 

Now I turned archaeologist and went to the afore- 
mentioned Maumsbury Rings associated with the 
ancient peoples of this region, and later with the 
Romans, and last of all the meeting-place, as you 
may recall, of Henchard and Lucetta, and of Hen- 
chard and Susan, in "The Mayor of Casterbridge." 
Then out, a long tramp, to Maiden Castle, one of 
the most impressive places I have ever seen. It 
breathes the spirit of the remote past. I stood in a 
great solitude, at a spot where ancient man had dwelt 
for many long centuries and had left his mark. 
Returning to town I encountered a cattle fair of the 
sort familiar to Hardy readers. Entering I listened 
to the auctioneer calling out the bids while a group 
of Dorset farmers stood by. One fat sow brought 
eight pounds, fourteen shillings. Whether it be 
much or little I do not know. 

In the early afternoon I spent an hour at the 
County Museum, a fascinating place. Along with 
all the ancient objects there are some few quite 
modern. The latter include the original manuscript 
of "The Mayor of Casterbridge." 

Out beyond the military barracks is another 
mound erected by our remote ancestors, Poundbury. 



IN THOMAS HARDY'S WESSEX 75 

The remains of a German prison camp, the barbed 
wire fences still intact, are hard by. Thus is the 
past united to the present. At this point I sat for 
a period reading Hermann Lea's delightful and in- 
forming "Thomas Hardy's Wessex." Back at the 
hotel at five o'clock I talked through one of those 
beastly English telephones and received the welcome 
intimation that Mr. Hardy would see me. Wasting 
no time I went to Max Gate forthwith. On a fence 
gate near the Hardy home an itinerant fanatic has 
painted a Scripture motto strangely in keeping with 
that striking incident concerned with poor Tess. 

Max Gate is embosomed in thickset trees. I was 
ushered into a reception room to wait while >Mr. and 
Mrs. Hardy were bidding goodbye to some friends. 
It was furnished comfortably, not sumptuously and 
somewhat in the country style. A few bookcases 
held perhaps two hundred books among which I 
could distinguish an old set of Thackeray and among 
new books the volumes by Trevelyan on Garibaldi. 
On a low table was a four-foot model of a ship — 
it might be one of Nelson's squadron — its sails all 
unfurled and flying the Union Jack, Against the 
wall was a high-boy. Other attractive furnishings 
but nothing sumptuous, as I have said. The chairs 
were protected by linen strips bearing a huge letter 
"H." 

Then I was brought into the adjoining room, the 
main first floor room — the living room, let us say — 
also very attractive, but modest. Garden flowers, 
peonies and sweet peas, on the stands, small book 
cases at a distance; a recent book of H. G. Wells' 
on a stool. And here were Mr. and Mrs. Hardy. 



76 THIS WORLD SO WIDE 

They greeted me with quiet formality. Mrs. Hardy 
is a cultured English gentlewoman, many years 
younger than her husband. Mr. Hardy is visibly 
old (he is 82 this month) and walks quite deliber- 
ately. But he is not infirm and he has all his facul- 
ties. He may conceivably live for a number of 
years more. His hair is sparse and gray, not white. 
His mustache is streaked with gray. He may weigh 
150. He wore a becoming gray suit in good taste. 
He had a kindly but formal manner. His face 
shows thought, but no prevailing sadness as might 
possibly be expected from the sombre tone of his 
characteristic novels, deep tragedies as they are. 
I tried to make him do the talking, but it proved 
difficult. He is a diffident and retiring man tem- 
peramentally. They told me in the town that he 
never appeared in public when he could avoid it, and 
only once had he been known to make a speech, and 
that only a few words. It was a rare thing for 
him to meet strangers — but I had somehow accom- 
plished it. 

Mr. Hardy spoke of Hamlin Garland, whom he 
had met years before and who was about to visit 
Dorset. He seemed to approve of Hamlin Garland's 
policy of centering his work in the middle western 
setting which he knew so well. Contrariwise, he 
criticised pleasantly Henry James for coming to 
England and describing English people and scenes. 
He spoke of "Jude the Obscure" and of Chicago's 
attitude regarding the pig-killing passage. All the 
time he sat on a cushioned seat or stool, and spoke 
easily but very quietly and formally. I dared stay 
no longer, but after twenty minutes bowed myself 



IN THOMAS HARDY'S WESSEX 11 

out. Both Mr. and Mrs. Hardy shook me by the 
hand and were gracious enough to say they were 
glad to have met me. Were they? I hope so, 
but am far from sure. On my part it is one of the 
high points in my experiences this summer. 

I now worked my way slowly around the town 
and walked northwest to Mr. Hardy's early home 
to meet my appointment with the Pouncys. It is 
situated on an elevation an eighth of a mile from 
the road through a stretch of beautiful woods; and 
just beyond it is Egdon Heath. The cottage is an 
old picturesque building with a thatched roof. Rose 
bushes and vines half cover the building, and the 
grounds are laid out in an irregular sort of a garden. 
There may be six or seven rooms in the cottage. 
I found the entire family very delightful and cordial 
and full of humor and understanding. We had a 
cold supper and then Mr. Pouncy and I made our 
way in a few minutes' time through the furze to 
Rainbarrow at the top of the heath, a famous beacon 
place in the old days, and the setting of perhaps the 
most striking scene in Hardy's novels — the opening 
passage of "The Return of the Native." It was 
something to have stood there, where that most 
bewitching woman Eustacia Vye had stood and 
tried her wiles. Mr. Pouncy forthwith recited whole 
portions of Hardy, using the Dorset dialect for the 
dialogue parts, and he sang old country songs. It 
was the twilight hour and the shadows were deepen- 
ing on Egdon Heath. Mystery brooded on those 
heights. The eye could reach over great distances 
to the south and east. Just below (perhaps a half 
mile away) was a dairy farm, the very building 



78 THIS. WORLD SO WIDE 

where the "Quiet Woman Inn" had been located as 
described in "The Return of the Native." 

We were back at the house at dusk. I saw the 
room where Thomas Hardy was born, said good 
night to my kind hosts, and retraced my way to 
town. It was the longest day of the year and night 
came reluctantly. The evening stars lit my way. 
In the fields the sheep were cuddling down to sleep. 
A few stray wayfarers greeted me. In a half hour 
I was back in Dorchester; it was eleven o'clock by 
England's one hour fast time. And thus this long 
day closed. 

The plan I had formed for Thursday was to visit 
some of the places to the north of Dorchester con- 
nected with the Hardy novels. I took at nine o'clock 
the motor bus which goes through Dorchester on its 
way to Bournemouth. Four miles distant is Puddle- 
town and there I dismounted. It was the very spot 
where Gabriel Oak saw the fire at Weatherbury 
Farm and sprang down from his cart. The town 
church is hard by. I entered by the door used by 
Sergeant Troy when he went into the church on a 
famous occasion. Puddletown overlooks the Frome 
valley. It is conjectured that Talbothays' dairy 
farm where Tess had such happy experiences was in 
the valley below the town. The entire region is 
idyllic and beautiful. I walked on to Tolpuddle, 
a mere hamlet. In "Desperate Remedies" Owen is 
represented as restoring the church at this town. 
A lane passes from Tolpuddle a little further into 
the valley a mile or so to Affpuddle crossing on the 
way the Puddle (or Pydel) brook which gives its 
name to these villages. It is a quiet, sleepy spot. 



IN THOMAS HARDY'S WESSEX 79 

The honeysuckle vines on the way gave pleasant 
odors. In Affpuddle only four people seemed to 
be up and around. The buildings are cottages with 
sloping thatched roofs. I went into the church- 
yard and stood by the side of the church where 
Clym Yeobright and Eustacia Vye were married. 
I bared my head, though I disapproved of the 
marriage. 

Returning to the main road I walked on to Bere 
Regis, the largest of the small towns that border 
the heath on this side. At the Drax Arms Hotel 
I had a luncheon of ham and tomatoes and bread 
and cheese and ginger ale. Bere Regis is a famous 
old place. In Saxon times it was the residence of 
the Saxon Queen Elfrida. It has a fine old church 
with a timber roof in a remarkably perfect state 
after these many centuries. I saw the memorial 
window of the Turberville family, an authentic old 
family of these parts, which suggested to Thomas 
Hardy the background for his D'Urberville romance. 

And now I struck southeast on the road, straight 
as an arrow, leading seven miles across the Great 
Heath to Wareham. Whatever else may have 
changed in this country the heath remains substan- 
tially as it was in the time of the Celts. It stretches 
all the way to Bournemouth. I had seen it the 
night before on Rainbarrow. It is overgrown with 
heather and gorse and bracken and is dark green 
and brown in color. Sometimes small clumps of 
trees attach themselves to it but it is mostly bare, 
broken by hills and depressions or swales. Oc- 
casionally a little land is reclaimed from the Heath 
and there is a farm. 



80 THIS' WORLD SO WIDE 

My walk of seventeen miles was concluded at 
Wareham. This town of two thousand inhabitants 
is on the direct line from Poole to Dorchester. It 
is an ancient place, well known in Roman times, the 
spoil of Saxons and Danes, a place of desperate 
military fortunes in the old days and now a quiet 
town confined almost wholly within its one- 
thousand-year-old walls. How such a place appeals 
to one's imagination! 

On the way by train to Dorchester I passed, at 
the little village of Wool, Woolbridge House where 
poor Tess lived through those few days of her 
tragic honeymoon. 

My last day in the Thomas Hardy country saw 
me doing a few errands in the town of Dorches- 
ter early in the morning: a visit to "Hangman's Cot- 
tage," connected with the short story "The Withered 
Arm," another visit to the museum to see the manu- 
script of "The Mayor of Casterbridge" and to look 
again at the hind foot of the pliosaurus; and a few 
closing good-byes to my friends Mr, Pouncy and 
Mr. Ling, the bookseller. It was hard to leave Dor- 
chester after my delightful experiences there. 

A train now took me northwesterly. At Maiden 
Newton I was reminded of the stop that Tess made 
here for luncheon on her way to Flintcomb-Ash. 
The train went through Yeovil and on straight north 
and then northeast, seeking the valleys and travers- 
ing that exceedingly beautiful English country side. 
At Westbury it went on to Bath, while I changed 
and in another half hour mounted another train 
going a little south of east to Salisbury, which I 
reached about 1 :30 o'clock. Engaging a room at 



IN THOMAS HARDY'S WESSEX 81 

the County Hotel, I left my hzg and then spent a 
little time at the Cathedral, a famous building in 
Early English style complete, built in the thirteenth 
century and possessing the highest spire in Eng- 
land, 404 feet. 

But I was not quite through with Wessex. In 
order to get to Shaftesbury it had been necessary 
to come through to Salisbury. I now took a train 
on another line following the valley due west some 
miles to a little village called Semley. At this point 
I walked up the hill three miles to Shaftesbury. The 
day was gloriously cool and bright and the walk 
was all that the heart of man could desire, up from 
the valley on to the heights with great vistas at 
every turn. The road wound its way at times 
through a beautiful stretch of woods. 

At Wareham and Dorchester I had been in south 
Wessex. From Puddletown to Bere Regis on Thurs- 
day I had crossed the middle section. And now at 
Shaftesbury I was nearly at the northern boundary. 
The town is called "Shaston" in the Hardy novels. 
It is a very old town going back to Saxon times. 
In ancient days there was an abbey here, and also 
a nunnery founded by King Alfred. The town now 
has about two thousand inhabitants. The old and 
the new are curiously mingled in Shaftsbury as in 
all these Dorset towns. I walked quite through the 
place and stopped when the road began to descend 
to the south. Beyond to the southwest was the 
fertile and entrancing Blackmore Vale, very bright 
and pretty in the afternoon sunlight. Four or five 
miles distant was the town of "Marlott" (properly 
Marnhull) the girlhood home of Tess. Here she 



82 THIS WORLD SO WIDE 

first caught a glimpse of Angel Clare. And across 
the hill to the southeast of the point where I stood 
was Cranborne Chase, the scene of Tess' undoing 
at the hands of Alec D'Urberville. 

Retracing my steps through town I came to 
Bymport, an attractive street leading to an es- 
planade where another wonderful view of the valley 
may be had. At the schoolhouse the children were 
just being dismissed for the day; and I heard one 
boy calling another a nanny-goat, for reasons best 
known to himself. At this veritable schoolhouse 
Jude the Obscure visited Sue Phillotson. She lodged 
at Old-Grove's Place hard by. This extraordinarily 
interesting locality is therefore closely associated 
with one of the deepest of Hardy's tragedies. 

I returned to Semley thinking in a melancholy way 
of the drab and hopeless fortunes of Jude and of 
the two women he loved. And thus I left the 
Hardy country. In another hour I was back in 
Salisbury. The Cathedral bells were pealing the 
hour. 



RETURNING TO THE NORTH 

Having returned to Salisbury from my little trip 
to Shaftesbury, I took another look at the Cathedral 
and then sat me down to a course dinner at the 
County Hotel, very grand in quality and price. A 
company from St. James' Theatre, London, was 
playing "Lady Windermere's Fan." I bought myself 
a seat and spent a pleasant evening, though the play 
was better than the acting, as often happens. 

In the morning my first objective was Stonehenge, 
which is situated on Salisbury Plain ten miles to 
the north of Salisbury. Rain seemed imminent, but 
it held off most of the day. A bus took me to 
Amesbury, an old-fashioned village about two miles 
from my destination. Having walked the remaining 
distance and entered the enclosure, I found that 
the only other visitors at the moment were two 
young chaps, who had come all the way from home 
this Saturday morning thirty-five miles on their 
bicycles (or "push-bikes" as ordinarily called, to dis- 
tiniruish them from the motorcycles). They were 
most intelligent fellows, and very cordial. We ex- 
amined Stonehenge in company and discussed con- 
jecturally the life of early man. Stonehenge seems 
to have been a place of worship or sacrifice. It 
dates quite possibly as far back as 1500 B. C. and if 
so was in operation five hundred years before Solo- 
mon built the Temple at Jerusalem. The stones are 
huge and heavy and must have been brought from a 
considerable distance, for they are flinty rocks and 
there is nothing but chalk in the immediate neigh- 



84 THIS WORLD SO WIDE 

borhood. A number of artificial mounds (all prob- 
ably barrows similar to those I had found further 
south) are to be seen all around Stonehenge. It 
was at this ancient place of worship that Tess and 
her husband, Angel Clare, were apprehended by 
the authorities after their flight north. So here was 
still another link with Thomas Hardy's novels. 

Stonehenge has been for many years (perhaps for 
centuries) in the midst of a quiet grazing country 
with only an occasional farm house in sight. But 
during the war great aerodromes and accompany- 
ing buildings — now being torn down — were built 
hard by; and a mile or two distant is a great military 
camp. It is to be hoped that after a little Stone- 
henge will be left in peace. The souls of our ances- 
tors should not be disturbed at such a place. 

I returned to Amesbury a little before noon and 
caught a motor bus back to Salisbury. My feet just 
naturally took me again to that glorious cathedral. 
I sat at the back for an hour and a half and really 
imbibed a great deal of the beauty and majesty of 
the building. A thousand years ago I was unques- 
tionably a monk, and probably an illuminator of 
manuscripts. In Cromwell's day I was an iron- 
monger (let us say) of London — a Roundhead, a 
Puritan, pious and narrowminded. Later I was, I 
think, a poor Fellow at Oxford teaching Greek to 
reluctant youth. In due time I became an American; 
I flattened my a's and learned to say "I guess" — 
but, alas, I did not better my worldly estate. 

When I finally left Salisbury Cathedral I found 
that the weather was what the English call nahsty 
— rain and mist with a cold wind. I managed to get 



RETURNING TO THE NORTH 85 

to the station without becoming very damp, and I 
spent an unconscionable time in slow trains, with a 
wait at Woking thrown in, in getting to Guildford. 
I have no very impelling reason to give why I 
should go to Guilford. I liked its look on the map. 
It is in Surrey and I had never been in Surrey. The 
road from Guildford to Dorking is part of the old 
Pilgrims' Way leading to Canterbury. If I took 
this and got through the twelve miles maybe I could 
see the milk-white hens of Dorking owned by the 
lady Jingly Jones. But, chiefly, I seemed to recol- 
lect that Lewis Carroll had lived at Guildford. 

Well, to Guildford I w^ent, and the rain now having 
almost ceased I walked up the main street to Ye 
Angel Hotel and engaged a room right up under 
the Ccves in that old and interesting hostelry. The 
town is built on a hillside and is most picturesque 
and attractive with many very old buildings. I 
found Lewis Carroll's home — "The Chestnuts" — on 
a street leading up to the Castle; and at the book 
store I saw some interesting Lewis Carroll treas- 
ures, including a few books with his autograph. 

On the succeeding Sunday morning (June 25) 
I started about nine o'clock with my pilgrim staff 
on the way to Dorking. The road leads through 
town a long way. One feels like a horse with 
blinders as one w-alks between these hedges and 
fences with nothing to be seen but the road straight 
ahead. But in due time the country opened out and 
I began to mount slowly, past golf links and a 
broken stretch, and suddenly was on the heights and 
looking back to Guildford and a great reach of coun- 
try to the north and west. A little further on and 



86 THIS WORLD SO WIDE 

a similar view to the south and east was disclosed. 
This was Surrey, one of the loveliest counties of 
England. I had never seen a more beautiful sight 
of the kind; it nearly made me weep for joy. 
When the pilgrims going to Canterbury on a glori- 
ously clear Sunday morning came upon this hill 
top they must have bowed down and worshipped. 
I felt like it myself. 

As I descended the hill I came upon an old woman 
in the sorriest kind of rags and weighted down with 
a half dozen packs and bundles. She was making 
almost no speed at all going up hill. She was the 
very picture of the old woman in "The Tramp 
Transfigured," only she was, as she told me, going 
to Guildford and not to Piddinghoe. She said she 
had been caught in all of yesterday's rain and had 
slept the night through in her wet clothes. But she 
was good-natured and she asked for no sympathy. 
I gave her a small handful of coppers. She 
chuckled kindly and said: "Good luck to ye, my 
chap," and started again on her laborious journey. 
As for myself I continued down hill, went past some 
attractive cottages with holly hedges at the front, 
traversed a sort of lover's lane — the lovers were 
there, as was proper on a Sunday morning — and 
came to the curious old village of Shere. At the far 
end I abandoned the plan of going through to 
Dorking and seeing Lady Jingly's milk-white hens, 
and I turned north on a little lane going up hill 
under overarching trees, an enticing path that 
seemed just made for me. After a little my lane 
became a path and I was walking on a carpet of 
leaves in a stretch of woods. Then appeared a cross 



RETURNING TO THE NORTH 87 

path or woodsy road going west; and for a couple 
of miles I walked through deep woods. The roads 
and paths were very uncertain. I might have been 
a thousand miles from anywhere — but London was 
in fact only thirty miles away. After awhile I came 
out on the main road and walked alongside the 
Surrey downs and so back to Guildford which I 
reached at one o'clock after a fifteen-mile ramble. 

At the station I picked up a leisurely train and in 
an hour and a half dismounted at Waterloo, London; 
thence by the Underground to the familiar Hol- 
born. The West Central Hotel was now my head- 
quarters. It is opposite the Imperial and is cheaper 
and more quiet. On the train I had reckoned up my 
moneys and my remaining expenses, always a har- 
rowing experience. But I was cheered by the 
motto over the washbowl in my room at the West 
Central — "The Lord Will Provide" — and accepted 
it like an oracle from Delphi. 

That Sunday evening I went again to the City 
Temple and was one of a great audience listening 
with unbroken attention to a simple and powerful 
address given by Dr. JefiFerson. One feels at such 
a moment as if he were a slight atom of a sort of 
collective personality — an Anglo-Saxon entity that 
thinks much the same and has had a long continuous 
history. Then I strolled back a few miles through 
my customary London haunts, and so finished the 
evening. 

A pitiless rain fell next day from morning to night. 
This day witnessed the solemn burial at St. Paul's 
Cathedral of Sir Henry Wilson who had been as- 
sassinated a few days previously. I stood on the 



«8 THIS WORLD SO WIDE 

sidewalk close to Trafalgar Square and watched the 
funeral procession. It was indeed a remarkable 
sight, almost unparalleled in my experience. When 
the procession was formed at Eaton Square, Chopin's 
Funeral March was played, I believe, but on all the 
rest of the journey not a drum was heard, not a 
funeral note — only the tramp of horses and the 
measured tramp of men. Some of the most dis- 
tinguished troops in the British Army were there — 
the Horse Guards in red cloaks, silver helmets, 
nodding plumes, uplifted swords, then the Life 
Guards, the First Welsh Guards, the First Scots 
Guards, the Coldstream Guards and the Grenadier 
Guards, as handsome and stalwart a company of men 
as could well be found in the armies of the world. 
The coffin was draped with the British flag and on 
the top was Sir Henry W51son's sword and hat. 
In the company of distinguished men following the 
bier were Marshal Foch and Admiral Beatty and 
Lord Haig and of course many others. 

I came away with a deep impression of the great- 
ness of these English people. Oh, I know every- 
thing that can be objected, and I have some objec- 
tions myself. But the hope of the world does rest 
pretty largely in these sober and upright Britons and 
in the Anglo-Saxon peoples across the sea. My 
feeling is that the proportion of intelligent and re- 
sourceful and creative Italians is comparatively 
small. The French people I do not understand and 
hence I cannot judge fairly; but their general 
frothiness and love of display repels me, though 
I think I understand and sympathize with their na- 
tional difficulties and aims. The Germans are under 



RETURNING TO THE NORTH 89 

a cloud of their own seeking. The Russians have 
not emerged. For the present, and in our day, we 
must look chiefly to the best elements in England 
and America for the advancement and well-being 
of the world. 

In the late afternoon of that Monday I called 
again at Ginn and Company's office for a cup of 
tea and a visit. Morss and I later had dinner at his 
club, the Royal Societies* Club, and talked on until 
after ten o'clock. At the hotel I read for a long 
time in Austin Dobson's "Old-World Idylls," a very 
graceful volume of verses which I commend to all 
my friends. 

The morning of Tuesday was occupied by a sen- 
timental journey. I took the train from Liverpool 
Street through a flat region of factories and of truck 
farms to Broxbourne station some fifteen miles from 
London. Finding my way over to the town itself, 
I walked several miles toward London. This was 
the central portion of Hertfordshire and close to 
the place at which Charles Lamb's grandmother 
lived in his boyhood and which he describes in 

"Blakesmoor in H shire." The road for miles is 

almost one continuous street. I hope this was true 
in Lamb's day so that he did not lack for human 
companionship when he walked through this region, 
as he must have done frequently. Many of the 
buildings are very old, and were old a hundred 
years ago. The inns are still there and doing busi- 
ness — the "Haunch of Venison," the "Rose and 
Crown" and all the rest. I liked to think that at 
these hostelries he had stopped for his mug of ale. 

At Waltham Cross I took a bus for Edmonton. 



90 THIS WORLD SO WIDE 

After some inquiry at the latter place, I found the 
old churchyard; and thereabouts discovered a very 
courteous fellow who took me through the winding 
paths overgrown with grass, desolate and forsaken, 
to the goal of my little pilgrimage. There he left 
me. It was quarter to one o'clock, and I stood 
uncovered at the grave of Charles Lamb. For 
over thirty years I have loved this man as a brother. 
Few people that I have ever met in the flesh do I 
understand as well. The grave itself is well looked 
after and is bright with geraniums. Charles Lamb 
sleeps under the wind and the rain in a quiet spot 
but only slightly removed from the rumble and roar 
that appealed to him so strongly. Mary Lamb is 
buried in the same grave. I found presently in the 
village the house where they lived in Charles Lamb's 
last years. It is still called Lamb's Cottage. I 
stood at the gate when as it chanced an old feeble 
man, incredibly old and so infirm that belike he 
died that afternoon, came along from some errand 
in the village and invited me with great old-world 
civility to step inside. We sat in the room that was 
Charles Lamb's and where (quite probably) he died. 
He and Mary were simply lodgers there. Then the 
old man took me out to the back garden which must 
have been a pleasant place of retreat for Lamb and 
his sister. The house and garden cannot have 
changed much in the past century; I could project 
myself back very easily. Last of all my kind friend 
tottered out with me, uttering little asthmatic coughs 
the while, a few doors down the street and showed 
me the house that had been occupied by Dr. Ham- 



RETURNING TO THE NORTH 91 

mond, the very place where John Keats served his 
surgeon's apprenticeship. 

In an hour I was back again at the heart of Lon- 
don. I went on a few last errands, including of 
course a visit to Liberty's, the most fascinating of 
shops; and with very great reluctance, as always — 
it pulls on one's heartstrings to do so — I left London 
for another and last week in the countr}-. This time 
my express train took me straight north to Cam- 
bridge. A little before six o'clock I was walking 
the streets of that university town. Rejected at the 
Red Lion Hotel where I had written ahead for 
accommodations (the town was full of visitors, it 
seems) I found a very comfortable room in a lodg- 
ing house. Near by the bells of St. Mary's Church 
pealed the hours and quarter hours, and out of my 
windows I could see the spires of King's College 
Chapel. 

For an hour that evening I paddled in a rented 
canoe up and down the Cam River at the "'Backs," 
under picturesque bridges, by the side of green 
meadows and those beautiful college buildings with 
their Gothic towers and pinnacles. The evening was 
as perfect an evening as ever was created and the 
setting sun touched up the building tops and win- 
dows. I shall not attempt to describe the in- 
describable. 

A dull and gray day ensued, with sprinkles at 
intervals and a steady rain in the late afternoon 
and evening. It interfered of course but I am skillful 
at dodging these English raindrops. See me then 
walking about these classic streets and lanes and 
entering every college quadrangle that lay in my 



92 THIS WORLD SO WIDE 

path. At such a place all the slight baggage that 
one carries of learning and culture becomes elo- 
quent and significant, I like Cambridge as well as 
Oxford. Perhaps I was a poor Fellow here and 
not at Oxford. It would have suited me — say, 
King's, or Trinity, or St. John's, or Queens, or even 
Corpus Christi. Yes, in some respects Corpus 
Christi more than the others. There are still some 
Richardsons hereabouts: butchers and barbers, and a 
Madame Richardson who sells hats. 

Well, I renewed my acquaintance with all of these 
colleges — Christ's and Emmanuel and Pembroke, 
St. Peter's, St. Catharine's. At Queen's I went 
through to the Cam and sat on a tree trunk at the 
river's side. It was a lovely spot. Then on to 
King's, though without seeing the Chapel this time 
for it was closed. And through Trinity with its 
great Quadrangle and inner court, thinking of its 
many associations. At St. John's I found a friendly 
porter who took me through the Commons and the 
Masters' and Fellows' room. I should like to have 
attended St. John's — in Wordsworth's day, let us 
say. Cambridge has been richer in poets than Oxford. 

And the book stores! There is an enticing one 
in every street. Hefifer's shop is one of the best in 
England and hence in the world. I was there about 
three hours, looking over countless treasures and 
breaking the tenth commandment at every step. 
Yes, I picked up a few books here. I have bought 
so many books on this trip that I shall have to live 
on corned beef and cabbage for a year, though I 
detest 'em. 

An interesting time was spent in the Fitzwilliam 



RETURNING TO THE NORTH 93 

Museum. It contains a creditable collection of an- 
tiquities from the Orient, some old iMasters, a num- 
ber of modern paintings (by Rossetti, Burne-Jones 
and others), and treasures of various kinds. There 
is one of the thirteen impressions on vellum of the 
Kelmscott Chaucer, the loveliest of printed books, 
and the original of the Burne-Jones drawings for 
it. There is a series of woodcut impressions of 
Rossetti's drawings to illustrate Tennyson's poems, 
with many pencil notations of the artist. There are 
Severn's portrait of Keats and a lock of Keats's hair 
clipped by Severn on the poet's death. There are 
letters written by George Washington and Napoleon 
and Beethoven, the entire manuscript of Hardy's 
"J"de the Obscure," a page of Thackeray's 
"Adventures of Philip" and a number of Thackeray's 
drav/ings. There is the original of Rupert Brooke's 
"Grantchester," an exquisite thing; and letters of 
Oliver Cromwell, and Byron, and Wordsworth. 
There is a large marble model of the Taj Mahal. 

Thursday dawned gloriously, but the ugly clouds 
came along in due time, and I was again doing my 
best to escape the rain. On this day also I sought 
to establish if possible connections with the past — 
with medieval England and earlier. The most inter- 
esting event of the morning was a visit to Corpus 
Christi Library. I had attempted the day before 
repeatedly to secure entrance but without success. 
Now I made an appointment with the librarian, Sir 
Geoffrey Butler, who proved genial and cordial, 
a regular fellow in the best sense, and genuinely 
devoted, as a librarian should be, to the volumes 
under his charge. The library contains some of the 



94 THIS WORLD SO WIDE 

choicest early English manuscripts in existence — of 
Bede's and St. Anselm's and others — and priceless 
treasures from the old monasteries written in Greek 
and Latin and Anglo-Saxon. I was shown some 
wonderful illuminated books in vellum of the elev- 
enth and twelfth centuries (some of the most 
famous extant), and a number of early printed 
books of German, French, and Italian presses. Then 
Sir Geoffrey took me to the old court of the College, 
the most ancient portion (almost) of Cambridge 
University, and explained quite clearly how the 
College probably looked on its establishment in the 
fourteenth century. Last of all he pointed out the 
window of the room occupied by Christopher Mar- 
lowe when he wrote "Tamburlaine." After I had 
parted from my kind guide I entered the adjoining 
Church of St. Benedict, reputed to be the oldest 
church in England, with a famous Anglo-Saxon arch. 
It is a curious little place and it exhales the at- 
mosphere of old times. 

Well, I left Cambridge reluctantly after an inter- 
esting day and a half. As a natural continuation of 
my Corpus Christi experience I decided to post on 
to Bury St. Edmunds. It lies some miles to the east 
of Cambridge and is a sleepy town of sixteen 
thousand inhabitants. The shops were closed up 
tight for their Thursday afternoon holiday and I 
walked through deserted streets where much was 
new of course but where many buildings were quite 
old and weatherbeaten. At the end of the town is 
the ancient relic that makes the place famous — the 
ruins of the old Abbey built in the eleventh century 
over the tomb of St. Edmund, the last East Anglian 



RETURNING TO THE NORTH 95 

king. I recalled quite vividly the account of Bury 
Abbey in Carlyle's "Past and Present" and more 
particularly "The Chronicle of Jocelin of Brake- 
lond" on which Carlyle had based his account. 
The Abbey gateway is intact but inside there are 
only scattered ruins — stretches of wall, picturesque 
arches, and similar relics. The eye of the imagina- 
tion can reconstruct much, however. To me it is 
one of the most impressive spots of England. Here 
it was, I feel sure, that I was a monk. One of the 
choicest of the manuscript books in Corpus Christi 
is m.y work. It is an old Psalter and at the back 
is placed a curious account of beasts and birds, with 
moralizings thereon. 

The Abbey grounds are now used for the town 
botanic gardens and are lively with flowers. It 
happened also that I arrived on a special occasion. 
The townspeople were celebrating, and the young 
children were having "village revels." The latter 
proved a real bit of Merrie England. There was a 
fiddler in a smocked linen gown and green cocked 
hat. He played, and a small boy sang while two 
of his pals danced. Then a group of twelve-year- 
old girls danced a sort of old-fashioned minuet. 
Then a bevy of little girls who had been waiting on 
the side lines rushed forward to the maypole. They 
were five to eight years old and were dressed in 
pinks and blues and yellows and lavenders and 
greens and white, their little dresses and caps of 
just the right archaic cut. Well, they had been 
beautifully trained and when they went through with 
their exercises around the maypole and sang their 
little song and finally bowed to each other and to 



96 THIS WORLD SO WIDE 

the audience and tripped away to their places, I 
thought that the world could hold nothing more 
charming. If Abbot Samson had been there he 
would have smiled benignantly, and my friend 
Jocelin would have described it in his Chronicle. 

The skies smiled upon that little festival; but as 
I retraced my steps to the station, lo, a black cloud 
and a deluge. Then the rain was over for that day. 
From four o'clock until nine I now "messed 
around." as the English say, on slow trains and sat 
at junction points. I was going north to Lincoln 
through a flat agricultural country. At one place 
I was surprised to see a windmill with great swing- 
ing arms. At last Lincoln Cathedral appeared set 
up on a hill. I shall always remember it as I saw 
it with the setting sun casting its rays against its top. 



MY CLOSING DAYS AND RETURN 

My hotel in Lincoln was the Saracen's Head, my 
room being a huge one where I slept in a canopied 
bed very soft and deep. Before dark I mounted up 
the steep hillside streets to the Cathedral and viewed 
that great building from all sides, as the evening 
shadows deepened and the new moon crept across 
the topmost towers. Lincoln Cathedral is 480 feet 
long, and if one counts the enclosure and the 
Cathedral grounds the territory that it occupies is 
nauch greater. As I looked at its massive exterior 
I could well accept the general judgment that it is 
the finest Church in England. 

In the morning I pursued my investigation. This 
time I was of course successful in gaining admission 
to the Cathedral. It chanced to be the hour for 
morning service, and I slipped into the choir, being 
one of a very small company of the faithful who 
attended the service. For an hour I sat in that 
hushed and solemn place, following the passages 
as best I could. This Angel Choir built in the 
thirteenth century has been called "one of the love- 
liest of human works." The carving of the stalls and 
all the other furnishings were quite exquisite. This 
was a moment of such repose and beauty that I 
sighed when the service came to an end and I was 
thrown upon my own resources again. 

The basis of Lincoln Cathedral is Norman and 
some parts of the original structure — closing part of 
the eleventh century — remain to this day. I should 
like to have met the original projectors of this 



98 THIS WORLD SO WIDE 

noble edifice. It crowns the heights of Lincoln and 
sets its stamp on all this region. I endeavored to 
find the librarian of the Cathedral library (for I had 
learned that it contains some treasures) but I was 
unsuccessful. However, the verger took me through 
the cloisters and up through the library rooms, so 
that I was not cheated altogether of a view of the 
place. Leaving the Cathedral I hunted up the New- 
port Arch which is, if you will believe me, the 
authentic gate (that is, one of the gates) of the old 
Roman town on this site built at the beginning of 
the Christian era. Such an object awakens strange 
emotions. The very stones speak. 

At the beginning of the afternoon I took the train 
a distance westward to a small town called Retford 
and immediately started on an eight-mile tramp 
north through a flat but interesting country. The 
day as usual was partly overcast and when every 
half hour or so the dark clouds swept across the 
sky from west to east rain was likely. I was travers- 
ing the North Road leading direct to York and 
Edinburgh. It was unquestionably a thoroughfare 
in the days of the Pilgrims and on this road Elder 
Brewster himself must have been in his day a foot 
traveler like myself. I approached the tiny village 
of Scrooby, the very cradle of New England Puri- 
tanism. Almost none of its buildings go back to 
Brewster's day, but the present house on the site of 
Brewster Manor is open to visitors and it bears a 
tablet. I was welcomed cordially. There had been 
only two other Americans there this year (from 
New Jersey). Three men from Utah — one of them 



MY CLOSING DAYS AND RETURN 99 

the president of a Mormon institution in Salt Lake 
City — had visited the place last December. 

I retraced my steps to the old Scrooby church 
and was shown through it by a woman sixty years 
old or thereabouts, the postmistress of the village. 
She pointed out the Brewster pew and other points 
of interest, and said that years ago when Mr. Brad- 
ley bought the old Scrooby church font (it should 
never have been sold, she said) her father was over- 
seer of the parish. In her visitors' book at the 
postoffice she kept a roster of all the American vis- 
itors in thirty-- successive years. 

Well, I had an interesting time at Scrooby, as you 
see. I hurried away, for another storm was coming 
and I had over two miles to cover in the next three- 
quarters of an hour in order to catch my train at the 
next town. The rain came and I crept under a bush 
for ten minutes. I was half soaked, but I dried out 
before I mounted my train. Some miles beyond 
I changed to another train for Nottingham, and sat 
in a compartment with a young Derbyshire chap, a 
private in His Majesty's army. He talked a con- 
tinuous stream and told me all his personal history — 
but in a dialect so broad and otherwise so extraor- 
dinary that I could understand him only with the 
greatest difficulty. As to his future he told me 
that when he left the army he purposed to be a 
professional boxer. He had already started on his 
career and showed a swelled jaw and a lame wrist, 
the result of his last bout. 

It was after dark when I reached Nottingham 
and put up at the Victoria Station Hotel. There 
was no great reason why I should have come to 



100 THIS WORLD SO WIDE 

this city or having come should have stopped. But 
I had a sort of sentiment about it, it being at the 
southern end of the region known as Sherwood 
Forest, and I thought that in deference to Robin 
Hood I might as well sit down and look around. 

July was ushered in by another gray and partly 
rainy day. I tramped over a goodly section of Not- 
tingham in the morning, and paid a visit to the 
grounds of the old Norman castle, of some interest 
in itself and also because of a museum of antiquities 
and paintings which is included in the enclosure. 
Nottingham is, however, an industrial town almost 
wholly and it depressed me with its sights of sordid- 
ness and poverty. I moved on at the beginning of 
the afternoon to another town, also on the border of 
the Sherwood Forest region — Mansfield, not many 
miles north of Nottingham. Here I hoped to have a 
tramp almost as far north as Worksop which would 
have taken me quite through the best of the Sher- 
wood Forest area. In fact, I did cover several 
miles and was able to get a good idea of the coun- 
try, slightly rolling, fairly pleasing, and still beauti- 
fied with clumps of old trees and stretches of 
woods. In our day it is, strictly speaking, no more 
of a forest than is the Schwartzwald of Germany; 
and it was difficult, even with the aid of the imagina- 
tion, to reproduce the scenes in which Robin Hood 
and Friar Tuck and Maid Marian figured so 
romantically. 

The rain had now set in in earnest and I was glad 
to return to my good inn, the Swan Hotel, an old 
and comfortable hostelry. Here I had a fine dinner 
and then stretched out comfortably before the fire 



MY CLOSING DAYS AND RETURN 101 

and read my book, while the wind blew and the rain 
pattered outside. Every day I have, of course, done 
some reading and have largely consumed the goodly 
company of books I have lugged along with me on 
this trip to the north. 

A glance at the sky Sunday morning showed me 
that the same noteworthy weather was being con- 
tinued. In the course of the morning I had a bit of 
a stroll through town but for the most part con- 
tented myself with my book. At noon I took a train 
to Nottingham, where I mounted an express for 
Manchester, where I found my Liverpool train wait- 
ing. The journey consumed in all five hours. It 
rained when I started and it was raining in Liver- 
pool when I landed, but now and again it stopped in 
between. The trip across Derbyshire was especially 
attractive. 

In the evening after reaching Liverpool I walked 
down to the docks to see the argosies from the 
mighty deep, and discovered that the "Adriatic" of 
the White Star Line had just arrived — a fine upstand- 
ing boat. An ocean steamship is an object of peren- 
nial interest. 

Monday was spent pleasantly: first in meeting two 
friends from Boston (who came on the "Pittsburg") 
and in piloting them about town, and second in 
meeting my sister arriving on the "Canopic." We 
had dinner at the hotel with one of the other 
"Canopic" passengers. The best that could be done 
for me by the hotel people that night was to place 
a cot for my accommodation in one of the bath- 
rooms. I had never slept in a bath-room before, 



102 THIS WORLD SO WIDE 

but it can be done and I recommend it to other 
distressed travelers. 

Early on American Independence Day we went 
out to Huyton and had a good visit with Isobel at 
Liverpool College. Then back, and on by train to 
London. That evening and most of the next day 
and again the second evening we were with friends 
and we luxuriated in the human companionship and 
in the many absorbing sights of London. 

Thursday noon, July 6, I sailed from Southampton. 
My boat train had left London at 9:10 o'clock that 
morning. The Canadian Pacific "Melita" (14,000 
tons) has now been my home for eight days. We 
left in a great gale of wind and in making the cross- 
ing to Cherbourg pitched and tossed sufficiently to 
make many of the passengers lose all interest in 
life. That night was clear and I beheld the wander- 
ing moon and eve's one star. It was, however, the 
only pleasant evening in a week. Those who were 
poor sailors moaned and protested those first days, 
for the wind howled and the boat creaked and 
danced. The climax was reached on Sunday. It 
was difficult to make any progress in the companion- 
ways without holding on to the rails, and in walking 
the decks the salt spray blew in one's face and the 
bow and stern plunged up and down in a pictur- 
esque way. As the week advanced we calmed down 
and the passengers who had been on the point of 
death crawled out of their holes. But then the fog 
enveloped us and for the better part of two days 
the fog whistle blew dismally. One whole night we 
stopped completely. 

My acquaintances are practically confined to a 



MY CLOSING DAYS AND RETURN 103 

little group of men — to three in particular who sit 
with me at a small table in the dining room and dis- 
cuss affairs of heaven and earth three times a day. 
During these days I have observed my fellows, 
listening to the wonderful trivialities of ordinary 
conversation, wondering why he married her and 
why she married him, and engaging in other similar 
sociological pastimes. But mostly I have spent my 
time in reading — in the lounge, in the drawing-room, 
occasionally on deck, but mainly in my cabin. Since 
leaving Southampton I have consumed two volumes 
of Hardy's stories; Squire's "Selections from 
Modern Poets," De'Lucchi's "Anthology of Italian 
Poems," and some five other books of poems; 
volumes of essays by Gosse, Lynd, Murry, Strachey, 
and Norwood; three of Holberg's comedies, four 
of Aeschylus' tragedies in the Morshead translation, 
and the "Original Plays" of W. S. Gilbert; and, 
finally, Butcher's "Aspects of the Greek Genius," and 
Mackail's "Lectures on Poetry." Of the whole lot 
the Strachey and the Mackail volumes were the 
best. 

And now I am coming home — with considerable 
reluctance. I have the hope in my heart that I may 
do it again some more. My predicament is that of 
Kipling's time-expired soldier-man: "I can't drop it 
if I tried." 



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